“I walk this empty street
On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams
Where the city sleeps
And I’m the only one, and I walk alone”
— Green Day
Some lessons don’t come in grand, dramatic moments. Sometimes, they arrive quietly — lying alone in a bed of grass, staring up at the trees and the empty sky, feeling small in the middle of it all.
This past week, I’ve been learning something I thought I already understood:
Some people come into our lives not to stay, but to teach us how to let go. And that’s okay.
I still find myself starring at the moon sometimes, something that always reminded me of you. Not because I’m clinging to old feelings. Not because I’m hoping for something to come back. But because it reminds me that those feelings once existed. And sometimes, the memory of something beautiful is enough.
“I love you and I don’t want to.”
— Billie Eilish
I don’t know if you ever read the words I poured out for you back then. I sent them knowing it might hurt me more than it would reach you. And it did. You disappeared. Blocked me out like I never existed — without warning or even single explanation. And maybe that’s what hurts the most — not your silence, but the way you made sure I couldn’t reach you at all.
But maybe that’s not the point anymore. What mattered wasn’t your reply, or your distance. It was my courage — to say what I felt, even though I knew it might break me.
“And if nothing else, be proud of yourself for choosing to feel, even when it hurt.”
It’s strange how life teaches us about love and loss in such subtle ways. One moment you’re holding onto something so tightly, afraid to lose it. The next, you realize your hands were never meant to keep it forever.
Like Murakami wrote in Men Without Women:
“Life is strange, isn’t it? You can be totally entranced by the glow of something one minute, be willing to sacrifice everything to make it yours, but then a little time passes, or your perspective changes a bit, and all of a sudden you’re shocked at how faded it appears. What was I looking at?”
I’m still learning.
Learning to forgive myself for the things I couldn’t control.
Learning to release people I once swore I’d never let go.
Learning to make peace with the fact that not every connection is meant to last a lifetime — some are here to shape us, to wound us, to teach us softness.
I pray for you sometimes. Not in a desperate, aching way. But quietly. In the way you wish good things for someone you once loved. I hope you’re okay. And if you’re not, I hope you find your own quiet road to heal on.
And for me — I’m okay. Or at least, I’m learning to be.
And if one day you happen to remember me, I hope it’s the version of me that made you laugh, made you feel seen, made you feel a little less alone.
Because that’s what I’ll remember of you.