I hope she never stumbles upon my words.
I wonder if she ever asks about me.
If your name and mine ever cross her mind, if she notices the quiet hesitation in your voice when the past is mentioned.
Does she ever sense the weight of a history she was never meant to read?
Does she feel, in the silence between your words, that there was once someone who loved you deeply, someone who still does?
I hope she never finds out.
I hope she never stumbles upon my words, never sees the love I still pour into pages you will never read.
I hope she never asks you about me,
never wonders why my name lingers in unseen places, never finds the pieces of my heart I have left scattered across this space.
Let her believe she is the only one.
Let her never know that I still think of you when the night stretches long and lonely, when the world feels a little colder without you in it.
She is not my enemy.
I do not blame her for holding the hands
that once traced love across my skin,
for hearing the words that once belonged to me.
I do not wish her sadness, nor do I wish her doubt.
But if she knew—if she saw these words,
if she realized how often I still whisper your name into the quiet corners of my life—would she feel a shadow beside her?
Would she wonder if a part of you still lingers in the arms of the past?
This is my sorrow to carry, my love to keep.
Let her never know that even now, after all this time,
I still love you.
