The One That Burns Quiet

There’s a kind of love that doesn’t end. Not because it’s perfect. Not because it was mutual. But because it meant something.

Even if you were the only one who felt it all the way down. You try to move on, write it off, drink it out. Swipe right, flirt left, fake a laugh, fuck around. But it sticks. It lingers in the silences between other people’s sentences. In the songs that feel like they were written by ghosts who knew your story before you ever lived it.

This love… it shows up in dreams uninvited, in memories that ambush you at red lights. You can’t name it. You can’t post about it. Hell, you can’t even explain it without sounding like a lunatic or a poet. But it’s yours. And it’s holy. Because it stripped you of your pride and showed you what real vulnerability looks like. Not the Instagram kind. The on your knees, eyes bloodshot, whispering to God kind.

Maybe she’s out there right now pretending none of it mattered. Wearing new skin, new lipstick, new lies. Maybe she’ll never admit what it really was. But you’ll carry it. Not because you’re weak. But because it was real. And real doesn’t beg to be believed. It just survives. Quiet. Unshakeable. Like a scar that doesn’t ask for attention but still itches when the weather turns.

Sometimes you get it right hell, maybe even the first time. And it sort of defines you. Becomes who you are. Even if you’re not with them. Even if they forgot. You still carry them. Not like baggage. Like bone.

And you’ll always love them. Because they’re a part of you.