I keep wondering what “over” would actually look like.
Would it begin with our last conversation?
The final message?
The first full day when neither of us reaches out?
It may happen much more quietly than that.
I may only recognize it when something good happens and my first instinct is no longer to tell you.
When I hear a song without wondering if you would like it. When I finish writing something and no longer imagine you reading every line. When your name stops becoming the natural destination of every story I want to share.
But right now, none of that is true.
You are still the person my thoughts travel toward. You are still the name that appears in the middle of an ordinary day, making me wish I could give you even its smallest details.
And I refuse to search for another person merely to interrupt this feeling. Another heart should never be used as a distraction from yours. No one deserves to be given the role of replacing someone they have never met, or to be asked to fill a space that was shaped by an entirely different love.
If love ever finds me elsewhere, I want to meet it honestly—as something new, never as a remedy for missing you.
For now, my life is not paused.
I am still living, working, writing, laughing, making plans, and becoming someone beyond everything I feel for you. My love does not stop my life; it simply travels silently beside it.
Of course, I still long for more of your time.
There are moments when it hurts to realize that I cannot always be where your attention naturally goes. But I understand that you have a life already in motion—responsibilities, ambitions, private worlds, and priorities that exist beyond me.
So I take whatever moments arrive without pretending they are meaningless simply because I wanted more.
I do not know when this feeling will change.
I do not know whether love leaves all at once or slowly evanesces through a thousand ordinary mornings. Maybe one day, I will stop reaching without even noticing. Maybe your name will remain dear to me without carrying the same longing.
Or maybe love never completely disappears. It may only change its language—from wanting, to remembering; from hoping, to gratitude; from “I wish you were here” to “I am glad you once were.”
When this is over, I hope I recognize it through peace.
Not through the arrival of somebody new.
Not through bitterness.
Not through forcing myself to forget.
Just the gradual realization that my heart no longer asks every beautiful thing to find its way to you.
But today, it still does.
Today, you are still the first person my stories look for.
So, when will this be over?
Honestly, I don’t know.