"I wish we had more time together."
It's strange how words can haunt you, words that were never even spoken. They echo in my
mind, filling the emptiness of my apartment, lingering in the spaces where laughter used to
be. Sometimes, I almost believe I can hear her voice, soft and close, whispering those
words I wished she had said. But it's only in my mind. Anne never asked for more time; she
had already moved on while I was still hoping for a future together.
I still remember the day she left. We stood at the airport, surrounded by people hurrying to
catch flights, children tugging at parents' hands, couples saying quick goodbyes. But with
her, it was different. She hugged me tightly, like she always did, her head against my
shoulder, and I held her, feeling the weight of a thousand unspoken words between us. She
looked at me with those bright eyes, eyes full of dreams and places I would never see. "It's
just for a little while," she had said, a promise she meant in that moment, or at least, I
wanted to believe she did. But deep down, I knew even then. I knew she wouldn't come
back.
The first few months were like slow torture. The phone calls, the texts—they started out
frequent, the only lifeline keeping us connected. I'd lie awake at night, staring at the glow of
my phone, counting down the hours until her next message, hoping it would be something
more, a reminder of what we used to be. But over time, the calls grew less frequent, her
words shorter, her laughter more distant. I told myself it was just the time difference, just
the newness of her life there. I wanted so badly to believe that she'd come back, that she'd
remember what we had, and that it would be enough.
But then, one night, she called. Her voice was steady, almost too calm, and that was when I
knew. She didn't have to say much; I could feel the finality in her words. "Australia feels like
home now," she said, and I could hear it in her voice—she'd already made up her mind.
She'd built a life there, one that didn't include me, and as I listened, I felt the ground shift
beneath me, like I was slipping into a void. It was over. She was gone, not just physically,
but emotionally, too.
I hung up that night feeling numb, like someone had pulled the air from my lungs. I tried to
tell myself I'd be okay, that I'd find a way to move on. But as the days turned into weeks, and
the weeks into months, I found myself sinking deeper into a darkness I couldn't escape. I'd sit in the café where we used to meet, staring at the empty chair across from me, my fingers
tracing the rough edge of the table where her hands used to rest. I could almost see her
there, smiling at me, laughing, as if she were a ghost lingering in the places we once
shared.
Nights were the worst. I'd lie awake, my chest tight with an ache that wouldn't go away,
replaying every conversation, every touch, every moment we'd spent together. I'd stare at
the ceiling, whispering her name into the dark, asking the questions she'd never answer.
Why did you go, Anne? Why wasn't I enough for you to stay?
I started losing track of time. Days blurred together, one stretching into the next, each one
heavier than the last. I'd go through the motions, pretending to be okay, but inside, I was
breaking. The people around me didn't see it; they didn't see the emptiness eating away at
me, the way my chest felt hollow, like a part of me had been torn away and left somewhere I
could never reach. I'd drift through my days, moving from one empty moment to the next,
haunted by memories I couldn't escape.
I told myself to let go, to move on, but it was like trying to pull free from quicksand. The
more I struggled, the deeper I sank, until I could barely breathe. I stopped going out,
stopped seeing friends, stopped caring about the things I used to love. I'd sit alone in my
apartment, surrounded by silence, drowning in the memories of a life that felt like it
belonged to someone else. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. All I could do was sit there,
haunted by the ghost of her smile, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand that I'd
never feel again.
Some nights, I'd go for long walks, wandering through the empty streets, hoping the cold
night air would numb the ache in my chest. I'd look up at the stars, imagining she was doing
the same on the other side of the world, and for a moment, I'd feel close to her, like she was
still here, like we were still connected. But the moment would pass, leaving me feeling even
emptier than before.
People would tell me it would get better, that time would heal the wounds. But time felt like
my enemy, dragging me further away from the days when she was still a part of my life. The
pain didn't lessen; it just became a part of me, a constant weight pressing down on my
chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to get up in the morning, harder to care about
anything.
There were days I thought I couldn't go on, that the weight of losing her would crush me. I'd
stare into the mirror, looking at a stranger's face, wondering what happened to the person I
used to be. I wanted to be strong, to let her go, but I didn't know how. She had been my anchor, my light, the one person who made me feel alive, and without her, I was lost,
drifting in a sea of loneliness I couldn't escape.
Sometimes, I'd whisper to the empty room, as if she could hear me, as if my words could
reach across the distance between us. I wish we had more time, Anne. I wish you could see
what you've done to me, what I've become without you. But the room remained silent, my
words fading into the darkness, leaving me alone with my grief, my regret, and the
memories of a love that had once felt like it could change everything.
I don't know how to move on. I don't know how to let go. All I know is that each day feels like
a struggle, a battle between the part of me that wants to hold onto her memory and the part
that knows I can't keep living like this. I'm sinking, deeper and deeper, and I don't know if I'll
ever find my way out. But even now, even as I feel myself slipping away, there's a part of me
that holds onto her, that keeps whispering her name, hoping that somehow, she can hear
me, that somehow, she'll come back.
And maybe that's why I can't let go. Because a part of me still believes, still hopes, that one
day, we'll have more time together. But until then, I'm here, alone, drowning in the
memories of a love that left me broken, a love I don't know how to live without.