The echo of you.
There’s a kind of love that never asks to come back, but never quite leaves.
You were that for me.
Not the flame anymore, but the smoke that lingers in the fabric of who I used to be. A first love stitched into the lining of my memory—soft, sharp, unforgettable.
The weight of a name I don’t say out loud. And for years, I held the silence like it meant something. Like maybe if I kept it close, I could keep the story unfinished, and still alive.
We found each other again in the in-between—older, heavier with everything life had given and taken. The chemistry was still there, wild and undeniable, but the shape of us had changed. And so had I.
Being with you again felt like time travel. Like slipping into a version of myself I used to wear like skin. But she didn’t fit anymore. She had learned too much. Loved too many versions of love. Become her own compass.
And I realized:
To stay with you would mean folding myself back into someone I fought hard to grow beyond.
So I didn’t stay.
But still, I think of you. Not because I want to go back—but because some part of me still echoes with who we were. And maybe always will.
This isn’t a love letter.
It’s a thank you.
And a goodbye that doesn’t hurt anymore.
I carry the love. I keep the lessons. I let the rest be smoke.
