LAST TIME

Losing the love of your life feels like the world suddenly forgets how to spin in the right direction. One day everything is colored by their presence—their laugh in your memories, their scent on your clothes, the way they made ordinary moments feel eternal—and then, without warning, it’s gone. The silence where their voice used to be becomes the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.
It’s not just heartbreak; it’s a kind of death. You grieve the future you’d already started living in your head: the lazy Sundays, the fights you’d make up from, the growing old together. You walk around carrying this invisible wound, and people keep asking “How are you?” like the answer could ever be simple.
But here’s the brutal, quiet truth: the love doesn’t vanish, even when the person does. It stays inside you, reshaped into something heavier—regret, gratitude, longing, wisdom. It changes you permanently. Some days that weight feels unbearable. Other days it feels like proof that you’re still capable of feeling something vast and real in a world that often feels small and numb.
You won’t “get over” it the way people want you to. You’ll carry it. But slowly, almost against your will, you’ll start building a life around the space they left behind instead of inside the hole itself. And one day you’ll realize the love didn’t die—it just stopped having somewhere to go, so it settled into you instead.
That’s both the cruelty and the mercy of it. You lost them. But what you felt was never lost. It’s still yours. Always will be.