For the ones who loved in secret and never really recovered
*I once wrote this for a man who existed only between two lives, the one he lived and the one he wished for.*
*It’s not a confession. It’s a eulogy for the version of a person we all become when love happens at the wrong time but still finds the right place inside us.*
He was a man of imagination and imperfection, who ceased to exist quietly in the early hours of a long-overdue reckoning.
His age was never recorded, though those who knew him best understood he had lived several lives within one.
Built from fragments of hope, regret, and reckless affection, he was never meant entirely for this world.
He existed somewhere between truth and disguise, in that fragile space where love hides when it cannot live in daylight.
He loved deeply; perhaps too deeply; one woman in particular.
To her, he gave his gentlest thoughts and fiercest devotion, often mistaking obsession for destiny.
His flaws were many: impulsive, idealistic, incurably romantic.
But beneath it all beat a heart unafraid to feel, even when feeling cost him everything.
In the end, he came to understand that love cannot survive indefinitely in shadows.
It needs air, sunlight, imperfection, and truth.
And so, with quiet dignity, he accepted that his purpose was not to endure,
but to show that longing without honesty is just another form of hiding.
He leaves behind no possessions, no photographs, and no trace of the world he once tried to build.
But he does leave something quieter, purer:
the knowledge that even imaginary hearts can break,
and that sometimes, the act of letting them die is the truest form of love.
May he rest in peace, at last.
TL;DR: Saying goodbye to a version of myself I can’t be anymore