I think love is less like a story and more like a sentence we never got to finish.
It starts soft, like a whisper you lean into without thinking. Then it grows, louder, brighter, until it feels too big to fit inside your chest. You start thinking in “we” instead of “I.”
But sometimes, without warning, it stops. No explanation, no grand ending, just silence where laughter used to be. And you’re left holding all the words you never said, wondering if they would’ve changed anything.
Maybe love doesn’t die. Maybe it just lives in a place where it’s no longer ours to reach. And all we can do is hope that, somewhere, the other person still remembers the way our voice sounded when we said their name.
It starts soft, like a whisper you lean into without thinking. Then it grows, louder, brighter, until it feels too big to fit inside your chest. You start thinking in “we” instead of “I.”
But sometimes, without warning, it stops. No explanation, no grand ending, just silence where laughter used to be. And you’re left holding all the words you never said, wondering if they would’ve changed anything.
Maybe love doesn’t die. Maybe it just lives in a place where it’s no longer ours to reach. And all we can do is hope that, somewhere, the other person still remembers the way our voice sounded when we said their name.
