It’s strange how memories keep their own pulse, even when you try to bury them. Faces, voices, little fragments of laughter — they come back when you least expect them, as if they’ve been waiting in the shadows for the right moment to remind you of what you’ve lost… or what you left behind.

People think they know the story. They repeat the pieces they’ve heard, but none of them were there in the quiet moments — the ones that mattered, the ones that cut the deepest. Maybe that’s why I stay silent. Words feel so small compared to what was felt.

Still, silence doesn’t erase longing. It doesn’t erase the way certain nights feel heavier than others, or how the thought of crossing paths again can send a shiver through the heart, equal parts fear and hope. I tell myself it’s better not to be seen, better to let the past stay dim… but some part of me wonders if the past ever really dies.

I’m not asking for answers. I’m not even sure what I’m giving you now. Maybe it’s nothing more than a stranger’s words, or maybe it’s a piece of me that I can’t quite lock away anymore. Believe whichever version makes it easier.

Just know this — distance doesn’t mean absence. Silence doesn’t mean forgetting. And if you ever find yourself thinking of me, don’t dismiss it too quickly. Sometimes the things we think are gone are the very things waiting to return when we’re ready to see them again.