We stopped belonging to each other long before we ever had the courage to admit it. It happened quietly, the way cold seeps into a room without asking, settling into the spaces between us until everything felt distant, untouched. Your voice lost its weight. Your eyes stopped reaching for me. We were standing in the same place, but already living separate endings.

I used to believe in the illusion of you—that somehow your presence meant permanence, that the way you said my name carried something real. I held onto fragments, convinced they were enough to build something lasting. But you were never whole with me. You loved in pieces, and I was foolish enough to try and make a home out of what was never meant to stay.

There’s a certain kind of cold that comes with understanding the truth. You were never mine. You were only ever passing through, something temporary that I mistook for fate. I let you linger anyway, let you convince me that half-love was still love, that emptiness could be dressed up as connection. I stood there in it, calling it warmth, even as it hollowed me out.

You touched me like something familiar but not important. Like a place you could return to when everything else felt unbearable, but never somewhere you intended to remain. I was convenience, not choice. And I learned that difference in the silence you left behind.

Now, without you, everything feels sharper. Cleaner. There’s no confusion here, no false comfort. Just the quiet honesty of absence, and the weight of what never truly existed.

I am not yours. Not in the way I deserved to be held, not in the way that lingers beyond convenience. And you are not mine. Not now, not ever in the way I needed you to be.

We were never something real—just two people colliding in the dark, mistaking the impact for meaning, and calling it love until it disappeared.