Time Heals, But For How Long?

Time heals everything, they say. But no one speaks of what happens during that time. No one tells you how the memories creep up on you when you least expect them, how the laughter that once made your heart race now echoes in your emptiness. No one mentions how your body still moves in rhythm with someone who is no longer there, how your hands reach for theirs in a crowd, how your eyes scan for them without thinking.

Everyone says it will pass. Everyone says it will be okay in the end. Perhaps it will. But right now, it is the greatest pain I have ever endured.
Because it wasn’t always like this.

Ours was a love that came like the morning sun, you know, gentle at first, then burning with heat so fierce I thought it would never fade.
We talked for hours, our conversations stretched into the night like an endless road we never wanted to leave. There were days we didn’t sleep because we couldn’t bear to hang up. We would talk about everything: our childhoods, fears, dreams, and things we had never told another soul.

I remember the first time I realized I loved him. It wasn’t in some dramatic moment, no, not in the way movies made it seem. It was simple. I was walking to class, and he texted me, “Have you eaten?” And my heart fluttered because I knew he wasn’t asking out of politeness. He genuinely wanted to know. I mean, he knows me too well, most times, I wouldn’t eat unless someone reminded me or forced me to. And he always did.

“Don’t skip meals, love. It’s not healthy.”

It was such a small, simple message, but that was who he was. He paid attention to the details, to the things that seemed insignificant to everyone else. And I found myself smiling at my phone like an idiot. That was the moment. That was when I knew.
Not when he called me beautiful. Not when he held my hand for the first time. Not when he kissed me under the soft glow of the campus streetlights. It was when he remembered the little things. The things no one else did.
I did the stupidest things just to see him on campus. Took longer routes, showed up at places I had no business being in, and walked into a cafeteria I hated just because I knew he might be there. And when I did see him? My entire day was made.
He had a way of making me laugh when I was in the worst mood. He could read me so well that it scared me sometimes. “You’re overthinking again,” he’d say, and then he’d pull me into one of those hugs that felt like home.
And the way he looked at me, God, the way he looked at me. Like I was the only person in the world. Like he had found something precious and couldn’t believe it was his. I was his, and he was mine, or at least, I thought he was.
But love doesn’t just stay in the beautiful moments. It demands effort, patience, and a willingness to hold on, even when the initial fire dims.
Well, he was my constant. Perhaps everyone was right. Perhaps we wouldn’t have worked out. I couldn’t see it when they said it. Weeks and months later, I still couldn’t see it. I know he didn’t see it either. Every day, every moment is now a memory of him.
Now, my hands seek his hand. My eyes search for those beautiful brown eyes. His scent lingers in my mind, and sometimes, I catch a whiff of something that smells like him, and my world stops.
I stop.
For two seconds, three seconds, ten seconds. A full minute.
The best moments of my day.
You see, love is a constant effort. Love is not just the rush of butterflies in my stomach. Love is a choice, the choice I made every single day until now.
When he touched my hand, I wanted to pull away. The contact felt like a cruel reminder of what once was and it made me feel like a consolation to my soul, it was a moment of touch that was not enough when I had once dreamed of holding his hand forever.
I smiled at him, though I felt numb on the inside. An ice-cold grip clutched my insides as I responded to him like nothing had ever gone wrong.
They say if you want to get over someone, you must erase them from every possible dimension of your life. Block them, delete them, and move on. But I wanted to do more than that. I wanted to change numbers, change paths, change cities, or anything to escape the tornado inside me that threatened my sanity. I would do anything to not feel this way.
***
That night still haunts me. It wasn’t just about what we did; it was about everything it represented. The way I had crumbled at his touch, the way he had held me like I was still his, the way I had clung to him as if, somehow, that moment could fix everything that was already shattered between us.

But the reality was cruel. The moment had ended. The warmth of his hands had faded. And I was left alone in my bed, staring at my phone, waiting for something I knew would never come. I should have known better.
This wasn’t the first time. It had become a cycle, a sick, exhausting loop. He reached out, I resisted, then caved. And every single time, I left feeling emptier than before. That night was supposed to be different. I had promised myself that it would be the last. But why did it feel like I had only chained myself deeper into this mess?

I could still hear his voice, still feel his breath against my skin. My mind replayed everything on an endless loop, the way he had looked at me, the way I had wanted so desperately for him to say something, anything, that would make this pain worth it.
But he hadn’t and that silence echoed louder than any words ever could. It started like this…
“Just one last time, babe, please,” his text danced on my screen, the pleading emoji mocking me. I declined at first. But my stupid heart interfered again.

“When?” I found myself typing.
And just like that, I was back in his presence.
He looked into my eyes, waiting to see the same excitement, the same warmth. He gently planted a kiss on my forehead and gestured toward the bed, asking me to come closer.
I hesitated, holding my fragile heart together with invisible threads. He insisted.
“You can never be busy enough to not want to meet me?” my heart whispered.
And so, for the last time, I let myself be drawn into his arms. I let myself kiss him, touch him, lose myself in him. And we did what we always did, we unraveled, tangled in something both beautiful and broken.

His lips met mine with the kind of urgency that came from knowing this was temporary, that we were dancing on borrowed time. His touch sent shivers down my spine as his hands traced the familiar map of my skin, relearning every inch like a favorite story he wasn’t ready to close. I melted into him, into the warmth of his embrace, into the scent that had become a part of me, the scent I would carry with me long after he was gone.
We moved like two souls trying to hold onto something already sliding away, like waves crashing against the shore, something passionate but destined to retreat. His hands held me like a promise he couldn’t keep, and I let myself believe in the lie of the moment, in the illusion that maybe this time, it meant something more.

For those few stolen hours, the world outside didn’t exist. There was no heartbreak, no unanswered questions, no tomorrow where he would disappear into silence. There was just us, breathless, lost, and wrapped in the kind of love that burned too brightly to last. Afterward, as I sat at the edge of the bed, regret pressed down on me.
“Why do you put me through this every single time?” I asked.
He had no answer.
Instead, he offered to see me off.
“You know I love you, right?” I said, my voice small, and pathetic.
Nothing. No response.
“Okay, I’m leaving now,” I muttered, hating myself.
As he hugged me, and that assured me that there wouldn’t be another time, I turned and walked away, back to my dim little room, cursing myself for meeting him again.

The fairy lights twinkled against the windowpane in the darkness, their soft glow barely illuminating the emptiness inside me. Brymo’s voice played in the background, and his lyrics melted into the silence of my room.
How could life be so beautiful and yet so painful, all at once? I waited all night, hoping for a text. Hoping for something. Anything. But hope was foolish, and disappointment was my only companion. I lost my mental balance. I felt useless, or perhaps, used.
Why would he treat me like just another passing moment when he had once meant the world to me? I wasn’t expecting him to talk to me like before. I knew things had changed. I was the one who had drawn the line first. But at the very least, he could have spoken to me like a normal friend.

He may forget everything easily, but my memory, my friendship, is not that fragile. Losing someone who was once a lover is painful. But losing someone who was once a friend, watching them turn into a stranger, is even worse. I regret it every day. Every hour. Every moment.
It took every ounce of my willpower not to blow up his phone, to respect his silence. To respect his decision never to talk to me again. He broke my heart and stomped on it, and still, no one could have loved him as much as I did.
The pain of a lost love lingers like a slow, subtle poison. Letting go of someone you truly love is one of the hardest things in the world. It is so painful that breathing becomes torture, that talking becomes a chore, that eating is tasteless.

But clearly, I was wrong. No text, no calls, nothing, because the next day, the silence was louder. He went about his life like nothing had happened, like I hadn’t just laid bare every fragile part of me in his arms the night before. And me? I carried the heaviness of it, dragging it behind me like a chain I couldn’t break free from.
I checked my phone too many times. Maybe he had messaged, and I missed it. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe… But there was nothing. Not even a “Did you get home safe?”

It was funny how someone who once made me feel like the center of their universe could now treat me like an afterthought. A passing moment. A mistake. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to hate him. But anger never came, just a dull, aching kind of sadness, because deep down, I knew this wasn’t his fault alone.

I let myself fall back into his arms, knowing I would only walk away with more scars. I answered his text when I should have ignored it. I let him kiss me, touch me, love me—if I could even call it that anymore. I did this to myself.
And yet, I would do it again if he asked. God help me, I would do it again. The pain I felt? The love I felt? They were mine. No one could take them from me. Days passed. Weeks. Months.

And still, I looked back at the days he was mine and found comfort in them. His smile. His eyes. His voice. His hug. His kiss.
Mine.
There was comfort in that, no one needed to know but me. Even on the days when I resented him when anger burned in my chest, I still found myself waiting.
I still hoped.
I still wanted him to call.
Someday.