I look back at our photo — two smiles caught mid-laughter, too real to fake, even with life weighing heavy on us.
Back then, we didn’t have much, but we had that — something solid, unspoken.
Now, our smiles in pictures feel like strangers wearing our faces.

And though a part of me wants to stay angry,
there’s still a small corner of my heart
that waits for you to say something — anything — that sounds like the old us.

People keep asking, like they expect me to have all the words.
But why is it only me who has to say what happened? Why not you?
Do you ever stop and wonder
how much it hurts —
not just losing what we were,
but never really knowing why?

Doubts creep in, whispered by shadows. Love, once warm, grows unsure, burdened by unspoken questions and fear. He tries to keep their story alive, but she is turning away, slowly, silently.

She tells him love should be free, like a bird in the sky. He listens, but cannot understand.

Then comes the moment—when she leaves, when he watches, unable to grieve properly, unable to let go.

A single sentence, unfinished, lingers in the air:
"Some stories aren’t meant to be told to the end."