It was an ordinary morning, but something had changed. The ache I usually felt when I thought about them wasn’t there. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scroll through old texts. I just sat with my coffee and realized — I was okay. That’s the thing about letting go: it doesn’t announce itself. It arrives quietly, often in the spaces where pain used to live.
I had held on too tightly for too long — to memories, to promises, to an idea of love that never quite matched reality. I kept hoping for closure, for one final conversation that would make sense of everything. But it never came. And maybe it wasn’t supposed to. Maybe closure is something we give ourselves, not something we wait for.
Letting go wasn’t a decision I made overnight. It was slow. It came in waves. Some days I missed them so much it hurt to breathe. Other days I laughed again. Eventually, the good days outnumbered the hard ones. And then one day — that morning — the silence between us no longer felt like a wound.
We often think letting go means we didn’t care. But in truth, it means we cared enough to wish someone well, even without us in their life. It means choosing peace over chaos, acceptance over control, growth over stagnation.
I still think of them sometimes. Not with anger. Not even with sadness. Just with gratitude — for what we had, and for what I learned in the letting go.