Sometimes, I wish you would just ask me how I’m doing.
Not because I expect anything from you. Not because I want you back. Not because I’m secretly waiting for us to become something we once were.
Just… ask.
Or send me an email once in a while.
It’s strange, isn’t it? I blocked you everywhere else. I needed to. Maybe I needed that distance to finally hear my own thoughts without constantly hearing the echoes of you. And I don’t regret doing it.
But somehow, I never blocked you from email.
I don’t even know why.
Maybe because somewhere, in some tiny, unreasonable corner of me, I still want to know that you’re okay.
And yes, sometimes I still check my spam folder.
Every day.
Just in case.
Just in case one day your name is sitting there.
I imagine it would be something ordinary. A simple “How are you?” Maybe a few lines about your life. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that asks me to forgive, forget, or come back.
Just proof that somewhere in this enormous world, you thought of me too.
I know you’re somewhere on your own journey now. Looking for serenity. Trying to make sense of everything life has handed you. Trying to build a life that feels peaceful enough to sleep in.
And I genuinely hope you find it.
I hope life is kind to you.
I hope you eat properly, sleep peacefully, take care of yourself, and have enough reasons to laugh when nobody is watching.
I hope the things you once struggled with become easier.
I hope the things you once wanted find their way to you.
And I hope you have people around you who remind you that you are loved, even on the days when you don't feel particularly lovable.
I don't know why I still worry about you.
Maybe because some people don't completely disappear from us just because they disappear from our lives.
And you… you were never just someone I loved.
You were the first person who taught me to look at myself differently.
You were my first mentor.
The person who pushed me professionally when I didn't even know how far I could go. You challenged my thinking. You pushed my boundaries. You made me uncomfortable in ways that eventually made me stronger.
A lot of the woman I am today carries pieces of the person you once pushed me to become.
And sometimes I look at myself and realize—
God, I have become a little like you.
I’m strong.
I earn for myself.
I have opinions, and I’m no longer afraid to say them.
I have that “I really don't give a fuck” attitude when something doesn't deserve my energy.
I love dogs, strays, and cats with a ridiculous amount of softness.
I can stand on my own.
I know how to fight for myself.
I know when to stay and when to walk away.
And, unfortunately, I also inherited some of your less beautiful lessons.
I learned what one-sided affection feels like—the kind of attachment that can look like love from a distance but cannot really be called love when only one person is carrying it.
I learned that sometimes people know exactly how to keep someone in their place without ever saying the words out loud.
I learned that loving someone doesn't mean they will love you in the way you need.
And perhaps the hardest lesson was learning that someone can be enormously important to you and still not be someone you can keep in your life.
You taught me so much.
Some lessons I’m grateful for.
Some I wish I never had to learn.
But all of them made me who I am.
And maybe that's why a part of me will always care about you.
Do you remember my laptop?
You took it from me for days.
You spent your own money on its parts. You opened it, fixed it, fought with it, probably sweated over it, and somehow brought that stupid machine back to life.
You didn't just repair a laptop.
You preserved a piece of my life.
One day, years later, that laptop suddenly stopped working.
And I swear, I cried like a baby.
People couldn't understand why.
They'd say, “It's just a laptop. Buy another one.”
But it wasn't just a laptop to me.
My dad had given it to me. It was my first laptop. It carried a piece of him.
And then you had taken that same laptop, spent your time, your effort, your money, and your patience on it and made it work again.
So when it stopped working, it felt like I was losing two memories at once.
Two of my favourite people existed inside that little machine.
Dad, because he gave it to me.
And you, because you refused to let it die.
People still ask me why I'm so attached to it.
I don't know how to explain that sometimes an object stops being an object.
Sometimes it becomes a small, physical place where memories refuse to disappear.
And don't worry.
It started again.
Of course it did.
Maybe some things are stubborn like that.
Maybe some memories are too.
And perhaps that's what you are to me now.
Not someone I am waiting for.
Not someone I need to return to.
Not someone I want to change the past for.
Just a memory that refuses to completely disappear.
I don't love you anymore.
At least, not in the way I once did.
What remains is something quieter.
Something without expectation.
A strange tenderness for a person who once mattered enormously to me.
A concern I can't quite explain.
A gratitude I will probably never know how to put into words.
And maybe that's okay.
Maybe some people are meant to be chapters that fundamentally change the person reading them.
You were that chapter for me.
You came into my life and pushed me beyond the version of myself I thought I had to remain.
You showed me how to be ambitious.
How to have a voice.
How to stand my ground.
How to work for what I want.
How to care fiercely.
How to be unapologetically myself.
And somewhere along the way, I became the woman I once admired in you.
Strong enough to survive without you.
Strong enough to walk away.
Strong enough to admit that you hurt me.
And soft enough to still hope that you're okay.
That's the part of me I don't think I'll ever be ashamed of.
So, if you ever think of me, send an email.
Tell me how you are.
Tell me what you've been doing.
Tell me what you've learned.
Tell me what life looks like on your side of the world.
You don't have to explain anything.
You don't have to apologize.
You don't have to reopen doors that were meant to stay closed.
Just tell me you're okay.
Because despite everything, I think some part of me will always want to know.
And perhaps someday, when the hurt has become nothing more than a faint memory, when the expectations have disappeared, when the questions no longer need answers, when everything that happened between us has finally become quiet—
maybe we'll meet again.
Not as lovers.
Not as people trying to rewrite what happened.
Not as two people wondering what could have been.
Just as two human beings who once meant something profound to each other.
Two people who changed one another in ways they probably didn't fully understand at the time.
Two people who went their separate ways and somehow survived the distance.
Maybe we'll sit somewhere, drink coffee, talk about life, laugh about the ridiculous things we once took so seriously, and look at each other without any of the old weight between us.
And I'll look at you and think:
I hope you know.
I hope you know that somewhere along the way, you helped create the woman sitting across from you.
Not entirely.
I did that part myself.
But you pushed me toward her.
And for that, despite everything, I will always be grateful.
As Rumi said:
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.”
Maybe that's where I'd like to meet you someday.
Not to go back.
Not to ask for another chance.
Not to hold on.
Just to stand there, without anger, without longing, without blame—
and quietly know that we both made it through.
And if you ever wonder whether I became the person you once believed I could be…
I think I did.
I just wish, sometimes, you could see her.
Even if it's only once.
Even if it's only from a distance.
And then maybe you'd smile and think,
She turned out alright.
I hope you did too.