I am not writing these lines to you,
but to what remains of me.
Because when you left, I understood this:
Sometimes a person does not write to someone else,
but to the missing piece within.
On the day you left, you didn’t really close the door.
The door was open,
but no one walked back in.
I stayed there.
On a threshold.
Neither with you,
nor without you.
What I once called standing side by side
I realized too late was only a rehearsal.
The place I thought was a beginning
was practicing its own ending.
The days were what was truly wasted;
time itself was merely the arrival of truth.
So I did not get angry with you.
I am not angry…
Because anger is still a form of connection,
and I have untied that bond.
My silence was mistaken for acceptance.
But it was a quiet rebellion growing inside me.
I did not shout,
because shouting still means wanting.
I stopped wanting.
And when wanting ends, a person grows lighter.
It becomes reunion.
There was a place in my heart.
No sound there,
no light.
Only a clear, still waiting.
You passed through that place
with all your noise…
You did not touch it.
But even passing leaves a trace.
I kept nothing that belonged to you.
Not an object,
not a sentence.
I only left your absence.
Because some absences cannot be filled;
they reduce a person to zero.
Love, I learned, is not standing side by side,
but becoming reunion itself.
I learned this too late.
And I’m glad I did.
Because I became whole.
What I thought was zero was not emptiness.
Zero was the place
where excess fell away.
There, for the first time,
I was alone with myself.
There was no one who loved,
no one who was abandoned.
Only what remained.
If one day these lines should reach you,
know that they were not written to call you back.
They are not a reminder.
This is a letter of surrender.
I let you go
so I could find myself.
I am not rushing to begin a new path now.
Even stopping requires haste.
I am at zero.
And this time,
I am in no hurry.
