I pull back the curtain and watch as snowflakes gently fall, one after another, in a delicate, endless dance. The flickering shadow of the fire from the hearth reflects faintly on the windowpane. I sit on the sofa, surrounded by old photo albums, unsent letters, and memories I never fully let go of.

You may not know this song, but it marked a pivotal moment in my life—life with the man whose letters I now read, the ones I never sent and the ones I never dared open.

“No, there are no lies,
when tears speak,
the lips remain silent.”

Only these verses seem to stir the deepest memories within me, pulling every tear from my soul. Do you know why? They remind me of him.

As I hum the song, a photo slips out from the album—our last dinner together. That night, we celebrated his thirtieth birthday. In the picture, I’m wearing a red dress, my eyes half-closed, clearly unhappy. Still, I forced a smile for him. Even then, I knew I didn’t love him. Even then, I knew he didn’t love me. What we had wasn’t love—it was routine, a steady rhythm of life that we were too familiar with to question.

He, my hero, my first love, the professor of my soul, my guide through every journey, my future husband. And I, his loyal partner, his constant companion, the disciple of his emotions, his future wife.

Who would have thought that we would drift apart? It seemed like we were meant to be together forever.

It didn’t matter how we felt. We convinced ourselves, “It will pass.” But habits never pass. They are the result of a love left unwatered. When you practice the same motions day after day, you forget whether it’s love you’re feeling or simply the passage of time. We told ourselves, “A wedding is inevitable.” He was getting older, and I would be his as soon as I finished my degree. Love had faded, but time was still marching on, and that’s what we clung to.

When it all finally stopped, I felt relief. I wasn’t on the wrong path anymore, I wasn’t lying to myself. But even so, it’s a strange emptiness when those familiar routines disappear. You never expect the last hug to really be the last. It wasn’t betrayal, or the lies, or the empty promises that hurt the most—it was the quiet realization that we had come to our final goodbye, and I hadn’t even known it at the time.

When people asked if I’d ever go back to him, I said no. And that’s true. I’d only want to be with him again if he were the man he was at the start—the one who loved with the sincerity and innocence of a child. The one with whom I’d drive around the city for hours, dreaming of our future. The one who’d leave a rose and my favorite chocolate on the passenger seat for me to find when I opened the door. The one who’d spend a rainy day in bed with me, binge-watching our favorite series. The one who saved every penny for coffee, breakfast, or dinner when we had nothing, but still had everything.

But I could never love him as an adult. The man he became was not the one I once adored. I loved him only for who he was back then, not who he is now.

I take the photo in my hands and toss it into the fireplace. Why do I keep revisiting these memories? What’s done is done. At least, in our final moments, I hugged him tight—as if somewhere deep down, I knew it would be the last time. And yet, I didn’t know. I thought he’d stop me when I left.

But in the end, neither of us turned back. Our last hug said everything we were too afraid to admit: goodbye.