I Loved You. Now What?

© Colonne / Pinterest

I’ve started this letter a hundred times, scrapped it, rewritten it, only to find myself circling back. There’s no real roadmap for writing to someone you used to love, no guidebook for the terrain you cross after "us." So here I am, trying to untangle the knot of who we were, and more importantly, who we are now. They say love is a journey, but they forget to mention the awkward layovers, the cancelled flights, and, of course, the bittersweet farewells.

We had our time, didn’t we? A glittering, intoxicating chapter where everything felt urgent, wild, and beautifully unpredictable. You once asked me if I’d ever thought about life after us, and I laughed, brushed it off, because life without you was something I couldn’t picture back then. You were woven into my plans, and I, into yours—or at least, that’s what I told myself. But here we are, separated by a clean break and a million little untold stories. It’s funny, isn’t it? That there was once a time when I knew exactly how you took your coffee, could pick out your laugh from across a room, and knew every little thing that could make or break your day. And now? Now I couldn’t say if you’ve switched to tea or if you’ve fallen in love with someone who laughs at your same terrible jokes.

I used to think love was this all-consuming flame, something that would burn bright and then disappear, leaving only memories in the ash. But love’s trickier than that, isn’t it? It lingers, like the smell of your cologne on a scarf I keep meaning to throw out. I used to wonder if moving on meant purging you from my life entirely, but that would mean erasing parts of myself, too—the parts of me that loved fiercely, recklessly, and with all the sincerity I could muster.

So, what do we do with the love that’s left over? The pieces of us that couldn’t fit back into place, even if we wanted them to? Maybe that’s the bittersweet beauty of love: that even after the chapter closes, the echoes remain, showing up unannounced on a quiet Tuesday or in a song we both used to hum in the car.

I still love the idea of you—the way you brought color to my world, even if that palette doesn’t match my life now. I still believe in the lessons you left me, like how love isn’t just about falling but about staying, even on the days it feels anything but romantic. I learned to laugh at myself with you, to soften the edges of my own fears, and for that, I am grateful. Maybe the real lesson isn’t about letting go but about learning to carry love in a lighter way—like a postcard from a place we’ve left, a reminder of a destination that was beautiful, but isn’t meant to be home anymore. You were my season, and I was yours. And while that season is over, I can’t say I’d change it if I had the chance.

So, where does that leave us now? You’re a memory, a cherished one, filed away with the kindness and tenderness of a first love, or perhaps even a last one. Loving you taught me about myself—the good, the messy, and the fragile. And while we may never cross paths again, know that part of me will always be grateful for our time, for what you gave and what I gave in return.

I loved you. And now? Now, I’m simply here, looking at life a little differently, knowing that I don’t need to erase you to move on. Because moving on doesn’t mean forgetting—it just means finding peace with what once was.

Thank you, for being my love story. And for the beautiful, imperfect end.

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