He sat by the window, watching the rain trace silent paths down the glass, each drop a whisper of something lost. He wasn't ashamed of the ache in his chest, nor of the way his heart still clung to someone who had long since let go. Love, real love, wasn't about fleeting glances or the rush of infatuation—it was the quiet, steady pull of something deeper, something that didn't fade just because the other person walked away.
They had never been just a moment to him. Never just a phase. It was never about how they looked in the dim glow of city lights or the way their laughter carried through empty streets. It was about the way they made him feel—safe, understood, seen. And that was why moving on wasn't as simple as everyone made it seem.
"Why do you still care?" a friend had asked once, frustration laced in their tone.
He had only smiled, shaking his head. "Because I loved with my heart, not just my eyes. You don't just erase that."
Maybe they had found someone new. Maybe they had already forgotten the nights spent whispering about dreams and fears, tangled up in something that felt infinite at the time. But he hadn't forgotten. He couldn't.
And maybe—just maybe—that was okay.