I suppose this is my last letter to you — or maybe to the idea of you. The version that only ever existed in the soft corners of my mind, painted in half-truths and the kind of hope that should have known better.

You see, I didn’t fall in love with you. I fell in love with the fragments I assembled when you weren’t looking — the fleeting moments where you almost looked kind, the words that sounded like warmth until they turned to smoke. I built you from the best pieces of my imagination, stitched them with what I wished love could feel like, and then had the audacity to call it real.

You were never mine. Maybe you were never anyone’s — only ever the kind of person who loved being loved. You wore attention like a crown and fed off affection as if it was proof of power. I was naive enough to mistake your hunger for depth, your cruelty for carelessness, your indifference for mystery.

I know now that I was the joke you told to your friends. That the moments I replayed in my head, the ones that felt cinematic, were nothing more than your temporary boredom. It used to sting — the thought that I had become an anecdote, a story told over drinks, with laughter filling the space where my sincerity once lived.

But here’s the thing — you only get to laugh if I still care. And I think I’ve reached the part where your voice stops echoing. Where your name doesn’t feel like a wound anymore.

You once told me that I made things too heavy, that I felt too much, that I was too easy. Maybe that was true. But I’d rather feel everything than live half-alive, mistaking manipulation for charm. I used to think love was something to earn — now I know it’s something that should never have required convincing.

Some nights, I still catch myself missing you — or what I thought you were. Then I remind myself: you were never that person. You only played the part long enough for me to believe. And I, foolishly, kept the script long after you walked off stage.

If you ever think of me — and maybe you won’t — I hope you remember someone who loved you when you didn’t deserve it. Someone who meant every word. Someone you couldn’t break completely, no matter how hard you tried.

You were a storm I mistook for the sea — vast, consuming, but never meant to stay.

And so, I’ll leave you here, in this letter. I’ll leave the ache, the questions, the what-ifs, and every version of me that tried to be enough for you. I’ll let you live on only as a story — a necessary one, but no longer mine to tell.

You’ll remain a chapter — the one that taught me that love without truth is nothing more than illusion.

So here’s to you, my favourite muse — not because you inspired beauty, but because you made me write my way back to myself.

And as I walk away now, lighter than I’ve ever been, I realise closure isn’t something you give — it’s something I choose. You can keep your laughter, your lies, your version of me that fits your narrative. I’ll keep my peace. You were once the noise I mistook for music, but I’ve found a quieter song now — one that doesn’t end in ache.

— Not yours anymore