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He loved her
like the last day of autumn —
knowing she'd leave,
but holding on
as if his hands could change the season.

She wasn’t just a chapter —
she was the entire book
he never finished,
because he kept rereading
the parts where she smiled.

He built a world around her absence,
talked to her like she still listened
in the silence of 3 a.m. walls,
replied to old messages
just to feel alive in the ruins.

But to her,
he was a moment —
a page she turned
without reading twice,
a sentence that never made her pause.

He broke quietly,
in places she never looked.
While she moved on,
light-footed,
as if his love was never heavy enough to hold her.

He was waiting
in the story she left behind.
And she —
she never looked back
to see if it ended.

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