and she will get what I dreamt of from him—
without asking,
without begging.
she won’t have to cry herself to sleep,
won’t whisper his name into the dark
like a plea the stars grew tired of hearing.
she will let the night know his name
in jubilation,
in release.

she will have it all.
and I hope she knows—
she found the person
of someone else’s prayers.
I hope she takes care of him.
and I hope he remembers
what it took for me to let him go.

because love like that doesn’t vanish,
it just finds quieter places to live—
between pages,
in songs I can’t skip,
in the way my heart softens
when I hear his name.

I don’t wish to have him back.
I only wish
that he’s learned to love gently now,
that he holds her the way I once imagined
he would hold me—
without fear,
without leaving.
and if someday she finds the cracks I once tried to seal,
I hope she sees them as proof—
not of his failure,
but of my faith.

because sometimes loving someone
means wanting the story
to turn out better for them,
even if it’s no longer yours to tell.