We Ended Before We Even Began — Part Two

The strange thing about ending something that never officially began is that nothing really changes.

And yet, everything does.

You’re still there. I’m still here. The world continues as if nothing significant has happened.

But between us, there’s a space now.

A careful distance that wasn’t there before.

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We didn’t stop talking immediately.

That would have been too obvious. Too dramatic. Too honest.

Instead, we did what people do when they’re trying not to lose each other completely.

We stayed polite.

Our conversations became lighter, safer. We talked about surface things. Things that didn’t require vulnerability. Things that didn’t risk reopening what we had both agreed to close.

We avoided depth like it was dangerous.

Because it was.

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I noticed how you stopped asking certain questions.

The ones that used to linger. The ones that invited honesty.

I noticed how I started editing myself before replying. How I removed emotion from my words, just in case you could still feel it through the screen.

We were both pretending.

And we were both exhausted.

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The hardest part wasn’t losing you.

It was losing the version of us that existed before we named the truth.

Before the boundaries. Before the restraint. Before the careful distance that felt necessary but unnatural.

There was a time when talking to you felt effortless. When silence wasn’t awkward. When I didn’t have to measure every word for emotional weight.

Now, everything felt intentional.

And intention made it heavy.

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I started noticing your absence in places you had never physically been.

In moments when I wanted to share something and instinctively reached for my phone, only to stop myself halfway. In thoughts that felt incomplete without your presence. In days that felt quieter than they used to.

You were still there.

But you weren’t with me anymore.

And that distinction hurt more than distance ever could.

⸻

Almost-love doesn’t end with a clean break.

It fades.

Slowly. Reluctantly. Unevenly.

Some days I felt okay. Rational. Grounded. Proud of us for choosing maturity. For doing the “right thing.”

Other days, the ache returned without warning.

A song. A phrase. A memory I hadn’t meant to keep.

And suddenly, I was missing you again.

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What made it worse was that I had no right to ask for more.

I couldn’t demand effort.

I couldn’t ask for reassurance.

I couldn’t say, “You’re pulling away,” because technically, you were doing exactly what we agreed to do.

You were respecting the boundary.

And I hated how much that hurt.

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Sometimes, I wondered if it hurt you too.

If you noticed the distance the way I did. If you felt the same emptiness creeping in where warmth used to live. If you missed me the way I missed you.

But I never asked.

Because asking would mean admitting that I was still holding on.

And I wasn’t supposed to be.

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There’s a loneliness that comes from loving someone in silence.

Not the kind where you cry openly or ache loudly. But the kind where you carry everything inside, because letting it out would change things you’re not allowed to change.

I learned to miss you quietly.

To think of you without reaching out. To feel without acting. To love without hope.

And that might have been the most painful part.

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You began to feel further away, even when you were present.

Your replies took longer. Your tone felt different. Not cold, just distant. Like you were slowly stepping back, one careful movement at a time.

I didn’t blame you.

If anything, I admired your discipline.

I just wished my heart would catch up.

⸻

I realized something uncomfortable during that time.

I wasn’t grieving a relationship.

I was grieving the future I had imagined without realizing it.

The version of my life where you stayed. Where we figured things out. Where timing wasn’t a barrier but a challenge we faced together.

Letting go of that imagined future felt like losing something real.

Even if it had only existed in my head.

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The worst nights were the quiet ones.

The nights when nothing happened, yet everything felt heavy. When I lay awake, replaying moments that now felt dangerous to revisit. When I wondered if you thought about me too, or if you had already moved on emotionally.

I told myself I didn’t want answers.

But I did.

I just didn’t want the pain that would come with them.

⸻

Eventually, distance became normal.

We didn’t talk every day anymore. Then not every week. The pauses grew longer, until they stopped feeling like pauses at all.

This was how things ended.

Not with final words.

But with fading presence.

⸻

And still, I carried you with me.

In quiet moments. In unguarded thoughts. In versions of myself that still remembered how it felt to be close to you.

I hated how easily my mind returned to you, even when I tried to move forward. I hated how something unfinished could still have such a strong hold on me.

But unfinished things often do.

They linger.

⸻

There’s a specific pain in knowing that love wasn’t the problem.

That no one was cruel.

That nothing was broken.

That timing simply refused to cooperate.

You can’t fix that.

You can’t fight it.

You can only accept it.

And acceptance doesn’t come easily.

⸻

I don’t know when I stopped hoping.

It wasn’t sudden.

It was gradual.

One day, I noticed that your name didn’t immediately spark the same ache. Another day, I realized I could think of you without imagining us together. Slowly, the pain softened into something quieter.

Still sad.

But survivable.

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Sometimes, I wonder if this is what growth feels like.

Not moving on quickly, but learning to carry the memory without letting it define you. Learning to hold love without needing it to turn into something more.

Learning that not all meaningful connections are meant to last.

Some are meant to change you.

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I don’t regret us.

Even now.

Even knowing how it ended.

Because for a brief moment in time, we met each other honestly. Without masks. Without expectations. And that mattered.

It still does.

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But there’s a truth I can no longer ignore.

Staying emotionally tethered to something that can’t grow will only keep me stuck in a version of myself that no longer exists.

And I owe it to myself to keep going.

Even if part of me still looks back.

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Maybe one day, we’ll talk again without weight.

Maybe one day, your name will just be a memory, not a feeling.

Or maybe some connections never fully disappear.

They just become quieter.

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All I know is this.

Ending before we began was painful.

But staying stuck there would have been worse.

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Part Three will explore what comes after acceptance — when memory loosens its grip, and the heart learns how to open again without fear.