I think I started forgetting you
on a Wednesday afternoon,
somewhere between folding laundry
and listening to the rain tap the window.
It didn’t hurt,
not at first.
Just a small,
unnoticeable shift in the weather.

You were never mine.
Not really.
But I carried you around like a favorite song—
one I couldn’t play out loud
because it was never meant for me.

I used to think
your silence meant something profound.
Now I wonder
if I was just filling in the blanks
with echoes of my own longing.

You were like fog—
soft, quiet, and everywhere.
But when the sun came,
you vanished
without explanation,
without apology.

Sometimes I still see your name
in places it doesn’t belong:
a book spine,
a street sign,
the back of someone’s shirt.
It’s strange,
the way the heart tries to hold on
to the things that have already let go.

Moving on isn’t an act of will.
It’s a slow disappearance.
A soft unraveling.
Like tea cooling in a forgotten cup.
Like a dream slipping away
as the train pulls into morning.

And in the quiet,
I tell myself:
She didn’t mean to stay.
She just passed through me—
like weather,
like music,
like a chapter that ends
before you realize
you’ve finished reading.