It all starts with a promise of eternity – that he will stay, no matter what. But sometimes the door closes without saying goodbye, leaving behind a void that you fill with the hope that he will return. What if he doesn't?
Every love story has a beginning – sparks, promises and that feeling that the world has finally found its meaning. But what happens when everything that was beautiful shatters into silence? When the door behind it remains closed and only one question remains: Will he come back?
The emptiness after leaving
The apartment was silent, like a promise he had never kept. I stared into the cup of coffee, long since lost its warmth, like the words we had once whispered on sunlit mornings. The air was thick with memories—tangled with the tiny details of his presence. A shirt hanging on a chair. Half of his perfume on the bathroom shelf.
But he wasn't there. And me? I was trapped in this endless limbo – between hope and despair.
Why did he leave?
I kept reliving the moment he walked out the door. Could you say something different? Could you hold it? Those questions that keep you awake at three in the morning, trying to find a reason for what broke you to pieces.
He said he needed time. Space. That there was too much pressure. But I didn't understand how there could be too much of what was everything to me. Space? How can love need distance?
I grabbed my phone, scrolled through the latest messages, and stopped at his: “I'll be back when I'm ready.” But ready for what? A life without me?
Waiting as a form of pain
It was like a long, dreary train ride through the fog. I didn't know when it would end, or where it was taking me. I was trapped in my own world of doubt, where everything I did was colored by the thought of him. Every sound in the hallway brought me to my feet—every stranger's footstep filled me with a momentary false hope.
Love often forces us to feel what we didn't think we were capable of feeling - hope that hurts. Waiting for a person who may never cross your threshold again.
Love without a return ticket
Will he really come back? And if he does – who will walk through that door? Will it still be him? Will it still be us? Or will we get lost in versions of ourselves that have changed in the meantime?
I started wondering: What do I expect? To apologize? To hug me and tell me he was wrong? And although I longed for his words, part of me knew that certain departures were final.
Love is not a highway where you can always turn back. Some stories don't have a return ticket - there is only arrival or departure.
What about me?
As I lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling, I finally allowed myself to ask something I hadn't dared to before: What if it's not about whether he'll come back? What if it's about whether I want him to come back?
The realization was painful. If he came back, I would have to put everything he had shattered back together—all the illusions, all the interrupted conversations, and broken promises. But at the same time, I knew that if he didn't come back, I had only one thing to put back together: myself.
A love I won't borrow again
That night I realized something important. I will no longer borrow pieces of my happiness in exchange for crumbs of hope. I will not wait for someone who abandoned me in the middle of a story in which I should be the main character.
Love is not a hotel with open doors where people can come and go as they please. Love is a home – and home is never a temporary refuge.
If he doesn't come back...
If he doesn't come back, I might still feel the pain for a while – because love doesn't disappear overnight. But it won't hurt forever. I've learned that the end isn't always a defeat. Sometimes it's just the beginning of a story you write yourself.
That morning I removed his shirt from the chair. Not out of anger, but out of self-love.
