A Walking Love
The hardest part isn’t when the love is gone.
It’s when the love is still there -
thick in the room,
woven through memory,
haunting the curve of a laugh that still lives in your chest.
It’s when his energy is still palpable.
When your body still knows the weight of his hands,
the cadence of his silence,
the almosts that kept you hoping.
Hope.
God, what a double-edged thing.
Hope kept me soft when I wanted to harden.
Hope let me imagine a version of him that might come back with eyes wide open,
finally ready to see me now,
not just remember who I was then.
But today…
I’m letting go of the version of him that lives in my imagination.
The one that reaches for me.
The one that chooses me.
The one that learns how to stay.
Because the truth is:
He didn’t choose me.
He chose distance.
He chose doubt.
He chose the safety of not trying.
And I don’t want to be chosen eventually.
I want to be chosen now - clearly, openly, without hesitation.
I’m not just walking away from him.
I’m walking away from the fantasy.
From the “what ifs” and “almosts” and sacred maybes.
Because love without action isn’t love.
It’s a feeling.
And I don’t build my future on feelings alone.
I am not a maybe.
I am not a muse for someone else’s growth.
I am not a pause between chapters.
I am the whole damn story.
So yes - the love is still there.
And maybe, in some way, it always will be.
But I’m walking away anyway.
Not because it didn’t matter.
But because I do.




















































































