I recognised her Face, but not Her anymore

There hasn’t been a single day when she hasn’t crossed my mind.

Not one morning without a memory.

Not one night without a replay.

And still… I never reached out.

Not because I was confused about what I felt. Not because I doubted my worth. And definitely not because I stopped caring. I stayed silent because I knew. I knew what was unfolding behind my back. I didn’t have proof wrapped in evidence, but I had patterns. I have always overthought — excessively, obsessively, to the point where it exhausts me. But the strange curse of my mind is this: every time I dismiss my instincts as paranoia, time proves them right.

It’s not a gift. It’s not intelligence. It’s just pain arriving early.

Today I saw her.

I was riding, lost in my own rhythm, when a familiar silhouette caught my eye. For a second, time thinned. My hands tightened on the handle. I don’t think she noticed me. Or maybe she did. Maybe I just prefer believing she didn’t — because if she did, and still chose to look through me, that would mean something final.

But what unsettled me wasn’t whether she saw me.

It was that I saw her… and somehow didn’t.

Her face was the same. The expressions, the way she adjusted her hair, the way she walked — all familiar. But something didn’t connect. It felt like recognizing a house you once lived in, only to realize it’s been renovated beyond memory. The structure stands, but the warmth is gone.

The girl I fell for wasn’t standing there.

The girl I miss wasn’t standing there.

And that’s the most confusing part — missing someone who technically still exists.

People will say, “Change is constant.”

They’ll say, “People evolve.”

They’ll say, “You can’t expect someone to stay the same.”

I understand that. I truly do.

But here’s what they don’t understand: change may be constant, but identity has continuity. There is always a thread — some core, some echo — that connects who we were to who we become. And when that thread feels severed, it’s not just change. It’s transformation without recognition.

Today I recognized her face, but I didn’t recognize her.

And maybe that was the closure I never asked for.

Because what I have been holding onto isn’t her — it’s the memory of who she was with me. The version of her that laughed a certain way, spoke with a certain softness, looked at me like I mattered. That version exists only in a time capsule now. And I’ve been guarding it like it still breathes.

But memories don’t grow. They don’t adapt. They stay preserved, untouched by reality. Meanwhile, people move on, evolve, make choices, become strangers.

Maybe I didn’t reach out because deep down, I already knew this moment would come — the moment when I would see her and feel nothing familiar except history.

And history, no matter how beautiful, is not a future.

So tonight, as I sit with this strange calmness, I understand something I couldn’t before:

I wasn’t losing her all this time.

I was slowly accepting that the person I loved no longer exists in the present.

And loving a memory is not the same as loving a person.

Sometimes closure isn’t a conversation.

Sometimes it’s a silent recognition on a random road.

Sometimes it’s realizing that what you miss is a version frozen in time — and time has moved on.

I still think about her. Maybe I will for a while.

But now I know I’m not waiting for her.

I’m letting go of a memory.

And that feels like the beginning of finally choosing myself.