You stand in the wreckage of that old story now, holding evidence you once would have thrown away without a second glance. A crumpled receipt with your name on it, a worn-out wallet photo, a watch scratched from years of work—ordinary things that suddenly feel like artifacts of a love you refused to see. It isn’t the love you begged for out loud, but the kind that chose rent over rest, showed up in full fridges and paid bills instead of tender phrases.
Regret settles in, not as punishment, but as clarity. You can’t rewind the arguments, the slammed doors, the years you spent convinced you were unwanted. Yet in this late understanding, something softens. You decide his legacy won’t be your bitterness, but your imitation. You will love as he did: quietly, consistently, in the background of someone else’s becoming—trusting that real devotion doesn’t vanish just because it goes unnoticed.
