Blue, the color of the ocean, mirrors the tears that streamed down my face when you said goodbye. It's the hue of the lies I told, the hidden pain that the world never saw, the ache in my heart when you expressed hatred—a sentiment I feared was true. Two years have passed, yet I'm trapped in a cycle of remembrance and regret, unable to escape the shadow of our past.

The details of our shared life—your number, your address, the places we cried—are etched in my memory. We could have avoided this heartache with the truth, but I was too immature to realize what we could have been. Your face haunts my dreams, your voice still echoes, and I'm left questioning why we lied, why I claimed to hate you. I gave you love, but it wasn't reciprocated, and that's fine. Yet, I'm burdened with the question: why didn't I just tell the truth?

I penned a final letter, a farewell, believing it would be the end. But I can't call you, even though I remember your number, because you've moved on. It seems I'm alone in this lingering pain, seeking closure I'll never find. So, I'll try to move on, to pretend, to forget this poem I never wrote. People may think me mad for clinging to this juvenile love, but despite the hatred that now mingles with my affection, I can't help it—I still love you.