sol.ace_r

I muttered to myself several times that I was fine because I didn’t love you.

The breakup ended more quietly than I expected,
as if it were nothing at all,
and the world kept moving as if nothing had happened.
Mornings came, time passed, and the seasons slowly changed.

I was doing just fine without you.

So I convinced myself that I hadn’t loved you.

I didn’t call you just because I missed you,
nor did I ask about you out of curiosity.
I didn’t go back and reread our old conversations.

I thought that meant it wasn’t love.

Because I believed love was supposed to be louder than that,
that the heart should be the first to collapse,
that it should hurt enough to take your breath away.

But strangely, when night falls,
I remember the way you used to hold my hand.

Not too tight, not too loose.

The way our steps would fall into rhythm without a word,
the way you would lean slightly toward me on cold days.

We didn’t love each other passionately,
but maybe we were slowly becoming alike.

I said I didn’t cry because I didn’t love you,
but maybe it was just that it wasn’t grand enough to cry over,
so I never called that feeling love.

Even after losing you, I didn’t fall apart,
but sometimes, without any reason, the air feels empty.

That’s when I realized.

Ah, you were there in that space.

I thought we ended because I didn’t love you,
but maybe I mistook the quietness of our love for its end.

It wasn’t a blazing fire, but something like gentle moonlight.
Not bright, but still illuminating me.

It wasn’t that I was fine because I didn’t love you,
we did love each other,
and now, it’s over.