There’s something I’ve come to understand, slowly…
not all at once, but in quiet moments, in the spaces between everything else.
Some parts of us don’t come back.
Not because they were taken.
Not because we were careless.
But because we gave them exactly where they were meant to go.
With you, a piece of my love will never return to me.
And strangely… that doesn’t hurt the way it used to.
It feels soft now.
Like a distant warmth I can still remember, even if I can’t reach it anymore.
I think we’re taught to believe love should be returned—
that it should come back to us in equal measure,
that it should stay, or grow, or at least remain ours in some way.
But there’s another kind of love.
The kind that doesn’t ask to be kept.
The kind that just… recognizes where it belongs,
and settles there.
That’s what that piece of me did.
It found you,
and it stayed.
And I let it.
Not because I didn’t want it back—
but because, somewhere deep down, I knew…
it wasn’t meant to return.
It was made for you.
There’s something almost sacred about that,
when you really sit with it.
To have created something inside yourself—
something gentle, something real—
and to have it exist now in someone else’s world,
in ways you may never fully see.
It doesn’t mean I’m empty where it used to be.
If anything…
it showed me how much I carry.
How much I’m capable of giving.
Because if I could love you like that—
in a way that didn’t need to be held onto,
in a way that didn’t demand to be returned—
then that love was never fragile.
It was never temporary.
It was something that could leave me
and still be whole.
So yeah…
there’s a piece of my love that lives with you now.
You don’t have to protect it.
You don’t have to give it back.
You don’t even have to understand it.
Just… have it.
It was always yours anyway.