What Remains as I Begin Again

Last year, you and I turned into ‘someone I used to know’ in each other’s lives. The lives we once planned to merge into one — spending them together ‘til death do us part, with a little daughter who would call us ‘Mami’ and ‘Papa’ — are now just memories.

I met new people and you did too. I went on with my life and so did you. I’m building a future that feels steady again, as you’re looking for someone who fits your story better. He embraces me in a new warmth, and perhaps she falls in love with your smile the same way I once did. We’re both living without the daydreams we shared during those long, nightly phone calls.

Our friends have stopped checking up on us, believing we’ve let go. Their curiosity has faded, as if our almost-forever was just a short-lived thunderstorm. Heavy, yes, but over far too soon. And yet, I keep wondering: was two years really a short time? To me, those were 104 weeks we spent thinking we were bound for life. 730 days of planning what colour my wedding kebaya will be. 17.520 hours of telling each other our deepest fears and darkest secrets. Those memories will belong only to us now, trapped in the darkest, dustiest corner of our hearts. Tucked away like souvenirs from the honeymoon we never did take.

How did it feel for you? All that we once dared to plan on has disappeared like passing clouds. Did it hurt you? Did it relieve you? Has it finally dawned on you what a bad match we were — or do you still think that no one will ever fit your puzzle as well as I did?

I am planning to get married, you know —just as we planned to, two years ago. I am designing this new chapter of my life based on the ruins of what we once had, whatever you want to call it. The guest lists I draft, the vendors I book, the songs I choose — all carry echoes of us. It feels like borrowing pieces of a life we never started, recycling them for an invitation that doesn’t have your name written on it.

Do you ever look back and wonder if it was ever really meant to be? I have done my share of yearning, retracing our steps, recounting all the memories — trying to pinpoint where the two of us, or maybe even just I, might have gone wrong.

The answer never did come.

With no strings tying me to you, no rings to anchor our hands, you and I have drifted apart until we are strangers again. No two keys to the same front door, no daughter who ends up being our pride and joy.

However, I find myself grateful. I find myself finally accepting the truth that our fate was never meant to align. We were fleeting. A beautiful moment caught in time, but never meant to last. You taught me about love in its rawest, most vulnerable form. Love that dares to dream even when the odds are stacked against it. However, you also taught me that love alone isn’t always enough. We needed more, and we didn’t have it. For that, I am grateful we ended.

I’m grateful we let go, so I could find the courage to finally meet someone who fills my heart with certainty instead of questions. Someone whose love feels like calm after a storm. So, I look forward with gratitude. Gratitude for what we had, for what we didn’t, and for the chance to begin again.

I am starting over with someone new. He does not have your dimple, does not share your habits, and does not come from a family like yours. He doesn’t know the way you held my hand, or the silly nicknames we used to call each other. He doesn’t know the inside jokes that made us smile, or the way we once whispered dreams of a little girl who’d look like the best of both of us.

And yet, he offers something you couldn’t : stability where there was once uncertainty, and a quiet kind of love that doesn’t feel like walking on a tightrope. The kind of love that holds me, that allows me to grow into a better person, that keeps me grounded. With him, there are no ghosts of what might have been. There are no lingering doubts, no shadows of unresolved questions.

As I’m writing this, I find myself wondering if it’s unfair to use the building blocks of what we had to construct this new chapter with him. But maybe that’s just life: taking the lessons, the mistakes, and the memories from one story and weaving them into another. He doesn’t remind me of you, and maybe that’s why I fell in love with him.