She Was the Story, He Was Just a Page

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.