Maybe I’ll Find You Again, When I’ve Found Myself

It’s strange, the things you remember.

The way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was trying to focus. The way she looked at you mid-sentence, like she wanted to say something more but always left it unsaid. The way time slowed when she was near — not because the world changed, but because you did.

We never officially ended. There was no goodbye. Just life pulling us in different directions, slowly enough that neither of us noticed until the silence between us became normal.

But here’s the thing: I still think about her. Not in a holding-on kind of way, but in a she’s-still-a-part-of-me kind of way. Because she is.

And what no one tells you is that the hardest part isn’t just missing someone — it’s realizing that somewhere in loving them, you became someone new. And now that they’re not around, you can’t go back to who you were before them.

She made me better. Not in a cinematic, life-altering way — but in the small, everyday moments. I listened more. I smiled more. I found myself remembering the names of flowers and noticing the colors of sunsets. I wasn’t just falling for her — I was unfolding into a version of me that I hadn’t known existed.

That’s what I miss the most.

Not just her — but the version of me that only existed because she did.

And yet, I still believe… maybe our story isn’t over.

I see her sometimes — in cafés we once visited, in songs I never liked until she hummed them under her breath. We still talk, once in a while. Nothing heavy. Just check-ins. Updates. But there’s a softness in the silence, a shared understanding that we were — and maybe still are — more than what time has allowed.

There’s still hope in me.

Hope that maybe we’re just growing separately right now, learning what we’re meant to learn, becoming who we’re meant to be. And maybe, once we’ve figured all that out, we’ll find our way back. Not as who we were — but as who we’ve become.

Because even now, when I look at myself, I see pieces of her. And I like those pieces. I want to hold on to them — not in longing, but in gratitude.

So no, the pain isn’t just in losing her.

It’s in knowing that I can never be exactly who I was before her — because loving her changed me. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe some people are meant to leave an imprint so deep that even if they’re gone for a while, they’re never really gone.

Maybe… just maybe… I’ll meet her again — and this time, we’ll both be ready.

Until then, I carry her softly — not as a wound, but as a part of my story that still has a few unwritten pages.