It’s been three years since you left, but to him, it still feels like yesterday. Your voice still echoes in his head—shaky, tired, but firm—as you packed the last of your things. “I gave you everything, and you gave me almost.” You didn’t cry. He did. But only after the door closed and your footsteps faded down the hallway. He thought you’d come back eventually. You always did.

But this time was different.

You're moved on now. He knows. He’s seen you, more than once, with someone else. A guy who holds your hand like you're made of gold and looks at you like you're the only thing that matters. You laughs differently now—lighter, freer.

Still, he can’t let her go.

He tries. God knows he tries. But every street corner whispers your name, every sunset looks like the one they watched together that summer, and every damn love song feels like a cruel reminder. Especially that song. Their song. He plays “Always” by Bon Jovi on repeat, letting every lyric slice into him like penance.

He writes you letters, long and messy, soaked in whiskey and regret. He never sends them. He just keeps them in a box under his bed like some kind of shrine. His friends say he should move on. But they don’t get it.

You wasn’t just a love. You was the love.

So he watches from afar—your smile, your new world, the life you built without him—and he tells himself he’s happy for you. But he’s not. Not really. Because no matter how much time passes, he still believes what he told you the night you left:

“I’ll love you. Baby, always.”

And he will. From the shadows, from the distance, for as long as it takes. Even if it’s forever.