I Told Sunset About You

There’s something about sunsets that makes them feel like they’re listening. As the sky turns orange, pink, and gold, I find myself telling it things I don’t say out loud. Tonight, I told the sunset about you.

I talked about how you laughed that one afternoon, with the sun shining in your eyes like it was meant to be there, like the light loved you. I told the sunset how your laugh still echoes in my head, warming me when I feel lonely. I told the sunset how your laugh still echoes in my head, warming me when I feel lonely. I told it how the world felt lighter when you were around, how being near you made everything less heavy, even without words.

As the day slipped away and the sky grew darker, I felt the quiet ache of memories that won’t go away. But I didn’t tell the sunset everything. There are things it wouldn’t understand, like how just being with you made me feel safe, or how the empty space you left still hurts in a way no one else can fill.

I asked the sunset why good things have to end, why moments so full of life can fade away, just like the last bit of sunlight. But the sky didn’t answer. It just stayed there, beautiful and quiet, like it knows that some questions don’t have answers.

And maybe that’s why sunsets are so special.

They remind me that even when something ends, it can still be beautiful. The sunset doesn’t fight the night; it just lets go. Maybe I need to learn how to do that too.

Maybe I need to tell myself it’s okay that you’re just a memory now, that your part in my life is over, but my story isn’t.

I told the sunset about you because it felt easier than admitting it to myself. But as the last of light disappeared, I started to realize — maybe letting go doesn’t have to hurt as much as I think. Maybe, like the day turning into night, I can let you go, knowing you’ll always be part of my memories.

But for now, as the sky rests, I’ll hold onto you in that last light, just a little longer.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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