~ A story of memories, love, and the mind that won’t let go ~
It’s been three years, two months, and fourteen days since I last saw him. No, I don’t keep count on purpose—it’s just that my mind never really stopped running that day. It’s like he took off, sprinting away, but never truly left. He’s still running inside my head til now. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get him to stop.
We met in the most ordinary way possible—at a coffee shop. He ordered black, no sugar. I spilled my caramel latte all over his jeans. I apologized a hundred times. He laughed it off and asked if I’d like to sit with him while he waited for his pants to dry. That was how it started. Simple. Unscripted. Real.
His name was Elias. He wasn’t one of those loud, charming, center-of-attention types. He was quieter, thoughtful, like he was always observing everything around him. I liked that. I liked the way he would sit in silence and let the world speak first before he joined in.
We spent a lot of time walking. Through parks, on sidewalks, in bookstores—just walking. Sometimes not even talking. It felt like our thoughts were walking with us, side by side. He had this way of listening that made you feel like everything you said was worth hearing. I once told him about my fear of being forgotten. He didn’t respond right away. He just held my hand and said, “Not by me.”
But the thing about people like Elias is that they carry storms in their silence. I should’ve seen it earlier, the way his eyes would drift off in the middle of a smile, or how he’d disappear for a day or two, claiming to have “needed to think.” I didn’t question it. I thought love meant patience. I thought giving someone space was the right thing to do.
Then one day, he left. No goodbye. No fight. No warning. Just a folded note on the kitchen counter.
“I love you. But I can’t do this. I’m not okay. I’m sorry.”
That note stayed on my desk for months. I read it every night, as if decoding the handwriting would give me the answers I never got. Where did he go? What was he not okay about? Why didn’t he let me in?
Since then, Elias hasn’t stopped running in my mind. Every corner of my memory is painted with him—his voice, the way he used to tap the table when he was thinking, how he hummed old jazz songs when washing dishes. Sometimes, I’ll hear someone with a similar laugh and freeze. Other times, I’ll see someone from behind and convince myself it’s him. It never is. But my heart races anyway.
I’ve tried everything to let go. I’ve traveled. I’ve deleted his photos. I’ve written letters I’ll never send. I even tried dating again. But the shadow of Elias always lingers. He’s the ghost I can’t exorcise.
And the worst part? I’m not even angry at him anymore. I understand, or at least I try to. Mental battles are often silent and lonely. Maybe he thought he was protecting me by leaving. Maybe he didn’t want me to see him break. Or maybe… he just didn’t know how to stay.
Still, the human brain is a cruel place. It replays scenes you wish you could forget. It traps you in “what-ifs” and “maybes.” Sometimes I dream of him—those dreams where we’re walking again, or just sitting in silence. I wake up with tears I didn’t feel falling.
People tell me I should move on. And I smile politely and say, “I’m trying.” But the truth is, I don’t even know what moving on looks like. Does it mean forgetting? Does it mean replacing? Or just learning how to live with the memory without breaking down?
Lately, I’ve been doing something different. Instead of pushing the thoughts away, I let them come. I sit with them. I let Elias run. I try to listen. Not to torture myself, but to understand the parts of me that still cling to the past. Maybe healing doesn’t mean erasing. Maybe it just means learning to carry someone differently.
I still visit the coffee shop sometimes. They changed the tables. The barista no longer recognizes me. But I sit there anyway. I sip my drink slowly and watch people come and go. And I imagine Elias walking in, smiling, as if nothing ever happened. I imagine what I would say. I imagine what he might say.
He’s still running inside my head til now.
But maybe, just maybe, one day he’ll slow down. And I’ll walk beside his memory instead of chasing it.
Until then, I’ll keep living. I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep sitting with my thoughts, not to drown in them, but to understand myself better. Because even if Elias is gone, the person I became when I loved him—that version of me—is still here.
And she’s learning how to run too.
