I don’t want revenge.
Not the kind that tastes like closure, not the kind that pretends to heal something it never really touches. I don’t want to rewrite what happened or make it hurt you the way it hurt me. That kind of symmetry feels empty now.
I don’t want you back either.
Not your voice, not your presence filling up quiet rooms, not the version of us that only existed because we didn’t know how it would end. I’ve made peace with the absence, or something close enough to it that I can breathe without reaching.
And I don’t want you to want me back.
There’s no comfort in the idea of you realizing too late, no satisfaction in being chosen after I’ve already learned how to unchoose you. That kind of longing, reversed and delayed, doesn’t feel like love—it just feels like timing playing tricks on both of us.
I don’t want anything, really.
No apologies. No explanations. No “what ifs” dressed up as conversations we’ll never have.
Just this one quiet, unreasonable thing—
I don’t want to be forgotten.
Not erased into something that barely happened.
Not reduced to a phase, or a lesson, or a name you struggle to place years from now. I don’t need to be missed, I don’t need to be loved from a distance, I don’t even need to be understood.
I just want to have existed to you in a way that lasts.
To be a thought that crosses your mind without warning.
A memory that still feels real when it surfaces.
Proof that, for a moment in time, I was something that mattered—not forever, not even for long… but enough that I don’t disappear completely.
Because I can carry the silence.
I can carry the distance.
I can even carry the ending.
I just don’t know how to carry being forgotten.