Let It Go, Love

The man who once said

he’d run away if nothing worked out-

the one who dreamed of escape

as if running could erase what burned inside-

I saw him today,

standing among people and noise,

a stranger wearing his old face.

Not even the courtesy of a smile.

He looked past me

as though the years between us

had turned into glass-

clear, hard, and impossible to break.

And I-

me, who once trembled at the thought of losing him-

stood there,

finger twined in my own hair,

pretending to be casual,

borrowing laughter from strangers

just to decorate the silence between us.

Maybe I wanted him to ache,

just a little,

to feel the sting of recognition.

But his eyes did not search for me.

They stayed clean, dry, untroubled-

as if the woman he loved for five long years

was only an echo he’d once heard in a dream.

And yes, I remember-

I was the one who first followed,

first confessed,

first built a world out of letters and phone calls.

If all those words had bloomed,

our little universe

might have filled the air

with laughter and children’s feet

racing through the dust.

But time is cruel.

It trims memory with dull scissors,

leaving behind uneven edges

and forgotten names.

If he remembered me at all,

he would not have turned away

as though memory itself was a wound

too raw to touch.

After we parted,

I told myself he’d grown dull,

slow, dimmed by life-

until today,

when I saw him lean toward my friend,

asking how she’s been,

his voice warm and easy,

eyes bright with that new-car shine.

He smiled in a way

that once belonged to me.

He lifted his keys,

a tiny metal crown of self-satisfaction.

And she laughed-

a soft, foolish laugh.

A weaker woman

might have broken right there.

But I?

I’ve learned to hold my tears

like rain in a fist-

tight, trembling,

never falling.

I walked over,

said something meaningless,

like “Take care,”

and left.

We stood close enough to breathe

the same memory,

but said nothing.

Because words-

words are dangerous things.

They start as bridges

and end as weapons.

He’d call me dramatic,

I’d call him stubborn,

and soon we’d be bleeding old arguments

all over again.

So I let the silence win.

I went home,

ate rice with too much salt,

felt the taste sting the back of my throat.

The past slipped over me

like a wet blanket-

heavy, smelling faintly of longing.

Even with my lips sealed,

my heart made noise-

a rusted door clanging shut

again and again,

inside my chest.

And still,

I’m glad I’ve grown rough around the edges.

I’ve learned to be

the woman who does not cry easily.

Because if I hadn’t,

I’d have drowned a hundred times

in the same shallow sea.

Now, I write instead.

I sift through memory

the way one counts grains of sand-

one by one,

knowing each is too small to hold forever.

So, love-

whatever name you once had,

whatever warmth you once gave—

go.

Go quietly,

like mist leaving the morning.

Go like the tide

that forgets the shore each night.

Go-

and let me stay here,

still,

unbroken,

free.