The days were peaceful, almost predictable, before you appeared. I was content in my own world, unaware of what was missing, until you came into my life like a burst of color against a gray scale canvas. You were everything I didn't know I needed warm, bright, comforting. In moments, it felt like you were woven into my very being, as if the universe had decided I deserved something beautiful.
But then, just as swiftly as you arrived, you left.
It was like a dream that evaporates the moment you open your eyes. I stood there, bewildered, clutching at the fragments of memories we created together. There was no explanation, no warning, just the emptiness that remained after your presence was gone. And it hurt—not because I was angry or lost, but because you made me believe that you were the best thing that had ever happened to me. And maybe you were.
But why come into my life at all, if you had to leave? Why show me something so wonderful, only to take it away? I replayed every moment, every word, trying to understand, but the answers never came.
In the quiet after you were gone, I was left with a question that lingered like an echo: Was it better to have felt that happiness, even briefly, or would it have been kinder if you'd never appeared at all?