what’s left in the fog

You’re still there.

In the back of my thoughts,

in the shadow behind every quiet moment.

Even now—

after everything.

And I don’t know why

I can’t let it go.

Maybe because the image I held of you

was never really you anymore.

Maybe because I kept loving

a memory that stopped being real

long before I could admit it.

They say love survives anything.

But we didn’t.

We didn’t survive.

I wanted to help you.

God, how I tried.

But your pain was a language

I never fully understood.

And mine…

was silence.

I still remember your scent in the air.

Not just cologne—

but something softer.

Something you.

And I wonder if I ever told you

how safe that made me feel.

I wanted to say so many things.

But my voice broke before it reached you.

And your heart—

your heart was already too far away

to feel any of it.

So I ran.

I ran to the only place

where guilt feels like gravity—

to fog that doesn’t just hide,

but remembers.

To streets that echo

with everything I tried to forget.

And now I don’t know

if you could ever forgive me.

If you’d even want to.

But I’m sorry.

I am so, so sorry.

Losing you

felt like losing the last part of myself

that still knew how to love.

That’s the memory I carry—

not just of you,

but of who I was when you looked at me

like I was worth saving.

I hope you don’t carry the version of me

that broke everything.

I hope you hold on to something kinder.

With love,

—the one who still remembers