Missing Someone You’re Not Even Supposed to Miss Anymore

Because closure doesn’t always mean forgetting.

It’s funny how we outgrow clothes, habits, cities —
But not people.

You were supposed to be a passing chapter.
A subplot in my coming-of-age story.
But somehow, you became the paragraph I keep rereading,
Even when the book has moved on.

You and I don’t talk anymore.
We’re strangers now,
With a history only we know how to hold.
And yet, you still live quietly in the spaces I don’t show anyone —
Like a song stuck on loop I didn’t ask for.

Some days, I think I’m fine.
And then I hear “Lover” by Taylor Swift playing in a coffee shop,
And it hits me —
God, I really did imagine forever with you.
Not in a hopeless romantic way —
But in a “we fit in the chaos” kind of way.
I saw you in the ordinary things.
I still do.

And that’s what hurts the most.
You’re not even supposed to be in my life anymore.
You’re not mine.
Not even close.
But you still echo in everything soft.

As humans, we crave closure, clarity, and connection.
We seek validation in pain,
Wanting someone to witness it,
To feel it, too.
So when my chest tightens at 1:43 a.m.,
When I whisper into the void,
I think,
“Will he ever know how much this still hurts?”

But the truth is —
Some people hurt you and sleep peacefully.
Some people leave, and never look back.
Some stories end without an apology,
Without a final scene.

And me?
I’m just stuck in the rerun,
Still carrying the love story we never got to finish.

I had to stop listening to “The Night We Met” —
Because it sounded too much like goodbye.

And if we ever stop talking for good…
I’ll still pause when “Lover” plays,
Not because I’m still in love,
But because some songs never quite learn how to forget.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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