Some hours carve themselves into your soul, not because of what happened, but because of what they made you feel. The kind of moments that arrive softly, without warning, without trumpets, and yet stay lodged somewhere between the ribs, like a song that won't fade. Those are the hours I'm talking about—the ones you never expect to become important. But later, they become everything.
It wasn't a grand day. It wasn't a first kiss, a dramatic goodbye, or a whispered "I love you" under a violet sky. No. It was a Tuesday, I think. One of those days without flavor or urgency. But now, when I close my eyes, I always go back to that afternoon.
You were sitting on the floor, barefoot, a book resting on your knees, and your hair tied in the most careless way—strands falling over your eyes. The sunlight filtered through the blinds, striping your face with golden lines. You didn't say much. I didn't either. I just watched you underline a passage, reread it, then smile to yourself.
I asked what made you smile.
You looked up and said, "It's the way this writer talks about time. He says it's not about minutes or days, but about meaning. That we live longer when we feel deeper."
You always said things like that. Not to impress, just because they came to you.
That hour, I realize now, was one of the longest in my life. Not in duration, but in depth. And I didn't even know it.
We never know, do we?
We think the unforgettable moments will come in fireworks, in big declarations, or unforgettable travels. But most of them come quietly. In the way your hand brushed mine when reaching for the same tea mug. In the way you hummed an out-of-tune song while washing dishes. In the way we walked, sometimes for hours, not needing to speak.
It's strange how memory works. I can't recall the exact day we first said goodbye. I don't remember the last time we laughed together, the final message before silence. But I remember the tone of your voice when you read poetry out loud. I remember the sound of your key turning in the door at 6:37 p.m., and the way your eyes lit up when you saw me waiting.
Sometimes I wonder what you remember. If anything.
Do you ever replay our fragments too?
Last week, I walked by the bakery near your old apartment. The one with the cinnamon rolls you pretended not to like, even though you always finished mine. The scent stopped me like a slap. I stood there, a full grown adult with a grocery bag, frozen by a memory that no longer had a place.
It's not just memories that return. It's the sensations. The ache of wanting. The flutter of moments too brief to grasp.
Camille says I need to stop romanticizing pain. That remembering is like holding on to glass—sooner or later, it cuts. Maybe she's right. But how can I let go of something that shaped the way I love, the way I write, the way I breathe?
There's a bench by the river where I sit sometimes. It's not ours—we never sat there together. But it feels like you. Maybe because it overlooks the kind of horizon you used to draw in the margins of your notebooks. I brought a journal there this morning. I wrote:
"Some hours don't fade. They deepen. They stretch across time like shadows at dusk, silent but undeniable."
I want to believe that not all lingering means being stuck. That remembering isn't always a refusal to move forward, but sometimes a way of honoring what mattered.
And yet... I miss you less now. That's the strange part. I miss you less, but I remember you more clearly.
It's like grief has changed shape. It no longer shouts. It whispers. It no longer drowns. It floats, just under the surface.
There are days I laugh again. Real laughter. And when it comes, it surprises me. I look around, half-expecting the air to shatter, for something to accuse me of betrayal. But nothing happens. The world goes on. And maybe, so do I.
Yesterday, I found the photograph. The one you took of me half-asleep, my hair a mess, my eyes closed, and a tiny smile on my lips. You always said I looked most honest when I wasn't aware of myself. I stared at it for a long time.
Then I put it back in the drawer.
I didn't cry.
That feels like progress, right?
Sometimes, I talk to you in my head. Not out loud—that would be madness. But internally. I imagine you asking how I've been, if I still write in the mornings, if I ever published that piece we talked about. I imagine myself telling you about Camille's new job, about the stray cat that's decided to live on my balcony, about the dream I had where we were old and happy, sitting by a fireplace with too many books and mismatched socks.
And then I open my eyes, and you're not there.
But here's the thing: I no longer panic at your absence.
There was a time I measured my life by the distance from you. Now, I measure it by the hours that are mine. The hours I've rebuilt. The laughter I've reclaimed. The quiet mornings that are tender, even in solitude.
I went to see the old bookseller again—the one near the metro station. He asked me how my heart was. I told him, "It's slower, but steady." He nodded like that was an answer that made sense.
He handed me a copy of a book called The Geography of Memory. I started reading it on the train. There was a line that stayed with me:
"Memory is not a place we visit—it's a place we live in, with walls made of yesterday's light."
Yes. That's exactly it.
We live in those hours. We build ourselves from them.
I think about you less, but when I do, it's with gentleness.
There are still songs I skip. Movies I won't rewatch. Cafés I avoid. But I no longer hate them. They just belong to that version of me who loved you completely. A version who was raw, and hopeful, and sometimes naive.
I've changed since then. Not entirely. But enough to know that love doesn't need to be forever to be true.
There's a kind of beauty in things that don't last.
It's almost midnight now. I've lit a candle, made a cup of that tea you used to love, and I'm writing this not as a letter, but as a truth.
Some hours—those small, aching, beautiful moments—they never leave us. They echo, they hum in the background, they shape the way we see the world. We may forget the exact words, but we remember how they made us feel. And maybe that's enough.
Not all love stories are meant to end in togetherness. Some are meant to end in remembrance. And if remembrance is all we have, then I choose to remember you gently.
With warmth.
With softness.
With peace.
But most of all—with gratitude.
You gave me hours I'll never forget.
And that, I think, is the kind of forever we rarely talk about.
End of Chapter 10
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