The Art of Letting Go

I am teaching my heart a cruel new language — one where your name means nothing. Every word I speak without you is a small rebellion, a quiet proof that I can still exist. I delete your laughter from my memory like erasing sunlight from a photograph. But the warmth — the warmth won’t leave. It hides in the corners of ordinary things: a song, a scent, a shadow on the floor. I tell myself love is not lost — only misplaced, buried beneath the ache of what was almost ours. Still, I dig with trembling hands, trying to find the edge of forgetting. It’s a strange kind of mercy, forcing yourself to fall out of love. It feels like drowning on purpose — but breathing anyway. And one day, I will wake up and your ghost will no longer fit inside my chest. Not because I stopped loving you, but because I finally learned to love myself more.