They didn’t just leave.
they moved on.
like you were a stop,
not a home.

you tell yourself stories
to survive it—
maybe they’re just numb,
maybe they cry too,
maybe they’ll break
when the silence gets too loud.

but they won’t.
because they already did their grieving
while they were still with you.
they were gone
before they were gone.

you didn’t notice the distance.
you mistook it for quiet.
you thought love was a thing
you could fix
if you just held on harder.

but they were already unloving you.
piece by piece.
day by day.
until you were a memory
they could carry
without pain.

and now you’re stuck
carrying all the weight they dropped.
picking through the wreck
for something that still feels like “us.”

there is no “us.”
there’s just you.
and the echo
of someone
who learned how to live
without you
while you were still
trying
to be enough.