Echoes of the Distant Past

She fell in love with echoes—but did they even exist anymore? She reminisced about the way he used to lean in when he spoke to her, as if every sentence was measured and mattered. There was a version of him who stayed up late just to talk about nothing and everything all at once. He believed closeness was something you chose every day. He knew how deeply his silences and unguarded moments affected her.

There were other versions of him, too. The hopeful one who made promises easily. The tired

one who arrived late to conversations or replied half-heartedly. The distant one who smiled

without having much to say. Each version quietly replaced the last, and she hadn’t noticed the

loss until it had settled in completely.

The present version was polite—perhaps even kind. He remembered details as they were

spoken, feelings as they unfolded. When she talked, he listened with careful posture and

thoughtful attention.

Loving him came naturally, but it became an act of remembering rather than sharing. She

carried the weight of conversations alone, waiting for replies to sentences that never came.

Her love reached for him in ways she couldn’t explain—for a man frozen in memory and

space.

She drifted for a long time before understanding that she wasn’t being abandoned. She was

outgrowing memories—many of them—that could no longer meet the present.

And slowly, she stopped loving him. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just gradually. She had

held onto him, or the idea of him, for far too long. He disappeared over time, and what she

gained was not absence, but clarity.

He no longer mattered. Not now. Not anymore.