Writers 
There are places
we leave without leaving.
A childhood bedroom
with sunlight on the curtains,
a name written beneath a desk,
a small collection of dreams
we were certain would come true.
There is the old street
where evenings smelled like rain,
where laughter escaped through open windows
and nobody knew
how quickly growing up could happen.
There are people, too.
People who once knew
the sound of our footsteps,
the stories we told too often,
the fears we pretended not to have.
We don't always lose them
through death.
Sometimes,
life simply becomes too wide
for two people to keep crossing.
And one day
their name appears on your screen
and feels like a photograph
from another lifetime.
You stare at it.
You remember.
Then you put the phone down.
Because some goodbyes
don't need words.
They happen quietly
between two unanswered messages,
between seasons,
between who you were
and who you had to become.
Still,
there are nights
when memory knocks gently.
And you let it in.
You remember the kitchen
where someone loved you
without asking you to earn it.
You remember a voice
calling your name
from another room.
You remember being younger
and believing
that the people you loved
would always be there.
What a beautiful lie
childhood gives us.
Forever.
We spend years
learning that forever
is sometimes only a moment
that stayed long enough
to change us.
And maybe that's okay.
Maybe not everything
is meant to remain.
Some things arrive
to teach us tenderness.
Some arrive
to break our hearts open.
Some arrive
just long enough
to leave a little light behind.
So I no longer hate
the places I had to leave.
I carry them differently now.
Like seashells in my pockets.
Like old photographs
without dates.
Like songs
I cannot hear
without becoming seventeen again.
I carry them
because they were real.
Because once,
they were home.
And even though
I cannot return,
I can still be grateful
that somewhere in this enormous world,
there was a version of me
who stood there,
looked around,
and thought
I could stay here forever.
