The Last time I write about Us

There are some stories we don’t share to change the past.

We share them because speaking them out loud is the only way to finally set them down.

This is mine.

For a very long time, I held on to a version of “us” that lived beautifully in my memory.

The laughter, the teasing, the warmth of being cared for, the innocence of being wanted,

and the feeling that I could be soft in a world that always demanded I be hard.

I won’t pretend he didn’t matter.

He did.

And perhaps that’s what makes writing this so difficult.

But today, I want to tell the story honestly—

not as a victim,

not as a martyr,

not as someone perfect,

and not as someone entirely wrong either.

Just as a human being trying to make sense of the places where love faltered on both sides.

I made mistakes—

some out of fear,

some out of immaturity,

some out of trying to fill the voids inside me before I even understood them.

I lied.

I hid things.

I escaped into the wrong places online.

I let loneliness make choices for me.

I tried to protect myself instead of trusting him enough to be transparent.

He didn’t deserve the dishonesty.

And I have to carry that lesson with honesty and responsibility.

Not with shame—

but with awareness.

I know my actions hurt him.

I wish I had handled things differently.

I wish I had known better.

I wish I had been kinder—not only to him, but to myself.

I accept this part of the story fully.

But there is another truth I cannot deny anymore.

Even before my mistakes,

he struggled with trust.

He checked my WhatsApp Web before anything had gone wrong.

He searched for betrayals that didn’t exist yet.

He feared losing me long before I ever gave him a reason to.

I don’t say this to blame him.

I say this to acknowledge something important:

We were both carrying wounds that were older than our relationship.

His mistrust wasn’t created by me.

My fear wasn’t created by him.

We simply collided at the wrong time—with the wrong versions of ourselves.

Sometimes love is real,

but the people in it are not ready.

I still miss the version of him who smiled like the world lit up.

Who looked proud when someone complimented me.

Who teased me.

Who held my hand like it was the most natural thing in the universe.

Losing him feels like losing a memory I grew up inside.

But I also know that clinging to what we were

doesn’t bring us back.

It only keeps me stuck in a place where neither of us can grow.

He chose a different life.

And maybe he’s happier there.

Maybe someone else fits his heart better now.

And maybe I’ve reached the place where holding on hurts more than letting go.

We both made mistakes.

We both tried.

We both failed each other in different ways.

There is no villain in this story.

Just two imperfect people

who loved each other fiercely

and broke each other quietly.

And today, I’m choosing to forgive both of us.

If he ever reads this—

I want him to know:

I’m not angry.

I’m not resentful.

I’m not waiting anymore.

I’m grateful for what we had,

I’m sorry for the ways I hurt him,

and I hope he finds whatever peace he was searching for.

But I’m choosing myself now.

Not out of spite.

Not out of ego.

Not out of heartbreak.

But because staying attached to a past version of us

has kept me from becoming the future version of me.

Not because the love wasn’t real.

It was.

Not because the memories don’t ache.

They do.

Not because I’m healed.

I’m not there yet.

But because finally,

I’m learning to let go without needing closure,

without needing a response,

without needing him to return.

Sometimes closure isn’t a conversation.

Sometimes closure is simply the moment

you stop rewriting the story in your head

and start living your life again.

I love you and would always care for you, but

this is that moment for me.

Everything after today

belongs to me —

not to us.