No Longer Waiting

There’s no announcement.

No grand epiphany.

Just a soft unraveling.

Like mist slipping from the mountain as the sun stretches itself across the horizon — slowly, quietly, completely.

It hits you while doing your usual tasks. Perhaps while washing the dishes or passing by a street you once avoided. It doesn’t ask permission, it doesn’t need to.

You realize you’re no longer holding your breath for the sound of a message, no longer tracing their name in the dust of memory. And it doesn’t sting the way you feared it would.

It just…

settles.

At some point, you stopped checking if they viewed your story. You stopped wondering what you did wrong, what you could’ve done differently, what they'd say if they saw you now. The fantasies grew faint like old film reels — flickering, distant, unnecessary. They used to feel like prophecy. Now, they feel like fiction.

It’s not that you no longer care. It's just that the waiting part — the gripping, hoping, aching part — has dissolved. The version of you who once held onto every sign, every maybe, has finally put down the map that always led back to them.

You started planting new things. Tiny joys. Quiet mornings that belonged to no one but you. Laughing without checking who was watching. Rediscovering parts of yourself you once shrunk to make room for their absence.

It wasn’t some defiant move toward healing.

It was survival.

Then it became freedom.

Somewhere between missing and moving on, you built a life that no longer revolved around someone else’s return. And the strangest part is: you didn’t even notice the shift. The longing just let go of you when you weren’t looking.

You’re not bitter.

Not angry.

Not even sad, really.

Just a little surprised.

That the thing you swore would break you didn’t. That the story ended without a dramatic finish. That forgetting wasn’t an explosion — it was erosion. And now the tide has taken what it needed to take.

So when you realize you’re no longer waiting for someone to come back, it doesn’t feel like a door slamming shut. It feels like walking into another room.

One with light.

One with air.

One where you can finally exhale.

And stay.

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