Waiting

Letters from the Past

Someone should have built a place for this.

Not for advice.
Not for solutions.

For this exact moment—
when something breaks inside you
and nothing anyone says reaches it.

A place where people don’t try to fix you.
Where no one tells you “it will pass,”
or “life goes on,”
as if words could move something that has stopped.

Because sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes life doesn’t go on.
It stays there—
frozen in the last moment something felt real.

And everything after that
is just movement without meaning.

There are people who grieve the dead.

And then there are people
who grieve someone still alive.

Walking somewhere.
Breathing.
Existing in a world that no longer includes you.

That kind of absence
doesn’t close.

It lingers.

It stretches across days,
across nights,
until time itself feels like something you’re trapped inside.

People say, “you’ll find someone else.”

As if love could be replaced.
As if connection could be exchanged
like something broken and returned.

I can’t.

Not because I don’t want to be happy.
But because what I felt
doesn’t leave space for something smaller.

And that is where the fear begins.

Not the fear of being alone.

The fear of never being touched again
in a way that means something.

Of never opening your hand
and finding another one there—
not by accident,
not out of habit,
but because it chose you.

Have you ever thought about that?

Not as an idea—
but as something that could actually happen?

That one day
there is no one left
who knows how you feel,
who knows how you love,
who knows what your silence means.

And you keep going.

Day after day,
holding on to something that barely holds.

A thread of hope—
thin, stretched, almost gone—
but still refusing to break.

And you don’t let go.

Because letting go
would mean accepting
that what you felt
will never exist again.

Maybe there is no love like this.

Maybe this is not something that fits inside a life
that keeps moving forward.

Maybe I belong somewhere else.
Somewhere time doesn’t force things to end.
Somewhere love doesn’t disappear
just because the world keeps turning.

Or maybe…

this is it.

This is what remains
when something real is taken from you
and nothing else can take its place.

And still—

I wait.

Not because I believe it will change.

But because there is nothing else
that feels honest.

Because you are the only one
I have ever loved
in a way that cannot be replaced.

And some things…

don’t end.

They just continue—
without the person they were meant for.