This is the last time I write about you. The last time I arrange all the words that keep pulling me back to you. You were everything I wanted, everything I needed, and somehow, you still are. But it doesn’t matter, I know that now. Sometimes people grow apart, even when their roots are still tightly intertwined. Sometimes all that remains is pain, and a memory that shines brighter than it was. I often wonder if you still think of me, if I still live somewhere inside you, the way you live inside me. Because I still carry you with me, like an old key that no longer opens any door. Maybe, in ten years, when the world has given us enough time, you’ll see me again, in thoughts, in dreams, or maybe in reality. And maybe then, you’ll know that a part of me always belonged to you and always will. But now, now I have to let go. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Because moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting you; it just means not losing myself. This is the last time I write about you. And maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll feel this text within you and understand that it was always for you.