Today’s been just a little bit harder than most.

Some days, the silence feels like background noise. Today, it’s the only sound I hear. We didn’t end in fire, not some dramatic explosion of words or closure. It was more like a light flicker that no one bothered to fix. Like a page left half written, the pen just dropped mid sentence.

He ended it. Even though something was felt. Even though it could’ve become something more, he walked away like it never stood a chance

But here’s the thing: I still miss him.

I know it doesn’t make me weak. It just makes me real. Because what I gave wasn’t fake, or casual, or empty. It came from the softest parts of me, the parts that believed in what we could’ve been.

The connection mattered to me. Even if he handled it like it didn’t.

I miss the way he looked at me when he was fully there. The way his touch made everything in my mind go quiet. The way, for a brief moment, I felt wanted, even if it was only halfway. I miss the version of us that lived in my head, the one I thought we could become if he had just met me halfway.

But grief isn’t always about what we lost. Sometimes it’s about what never got to grow.

And here’s what I’ve had to remind myself:

Missing someone isn’t a good enough reason to reopen the wounds they left behind.

Some days, I cry. Some nights, I write. I let the ache burn itself out.
But I’m learning not to confuse the longing with need.

Because deep down, I know I wasn’t missing him , I was missing the version of him I hoped was real.

The version I got? He wasn’t capable of holding me the way I need to be held.

And maybe one day, he’ll realize that.
But by then?

I might not miss him at all. Not in this aching, hollow way. Just in the quiet way that reminds me how far I’ve come.