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I still love you

in ways I don’t admit out loud.

Not the loud love,

not the kind that begs or breaks doors.

The quiet kind.

The kind that sits in my chest

and watches me try to be someone else.

I am learning how to walk forward

without dragging your name behind me.

Some days I succeed.

Some days it feels like I’m pretending

to be healed in public

while privately touching the bruise

to see if it still hurts.

You broke my heart

not with cruelty

but with absence.

With the slow realization

that wanting isn’t the same as choosing.

That love can exist

without staying.

I replay moments

not because I want to go back,

but because they prove it was real.

That I wasn’t foolish for believing

something soft could last in a hard world.

Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting you.

It means carrying the love differently.

Less hope.

More distance.

More respect for myself

than I had at the end.

I am building a life

where your shadow doesn’t decide the light.

I am learning that grief

and growth

can share the same body.

And maybe one day

loving you will feel like a chapter

instead of an open wound.

Until then,

I walk.

I breathe.

I let my heart hurt

without letting it turn me backward.