Dearest gentle reader,

It is a truth most cruelly confirmed that hearts, no matter how prepared, can still be broken. I once murmured a forewarning to the heavens, an anxious prophecy spun from the depths of my own apprehension—she would leave, just as all before her had done.

And so, she has.

Oh, how I had readied myself for this very moment, rehearsed its sting, fortified my heart against the inevitable ache. Yet, when the hour came, my defenses proved no match for the quiet devastation of her absence. Love had settled between us, light and effortless, filling the spaces between laughter and silence, binding us in a way only the most tender of affections can.

But love, dear reader, is an art most delicate, and I—a novice in its dialect—failed to speak it fluently. She mistook my quiet for indifference, unaware that my silence was not the absence of feeling but the presence of too much. And so, believing herself unloved, she turned away, leaving me not only with my sorrow but with the bitter knowing that I had been misunderstood.

I had always known she would leave. And yet, against my own wisdom, I dared to hope that, just once, I might be wrong. Alas, hope is a capricious thing, and prayers, it seems, are not always granted favor.

Now, I am left to wonder—what does one do with the weight of an unsaid goodbye? Where, dear reader, does one place a sorrow that refuses to be set down? If ever there is an answer, I suspect it is not one I am ready to hear.

Yours most wistfully,
A heart too heavy with farewells.
~Rodgers