Three months.

Three months since the headline that shattered whatever pieces of me I had left. “New It Couple: {{user}} and Carrington Spotted in Paris.”

I stared at that photo for hours. You looked happy — or maybe you looked good at pretending. You always were better at that than me. I wore my heart out loud; you wore yours in silence. But even through a screen, I could see it — his hand in yours, your head tilted toward his shoulder like it belonged there now.

Like I never existed.

What kills me most is I wasn’t even surprised. The moment we broke up — or were broken up for — I felt it coming. The tabloids got their teeth in us, and we started bleeding in front of the world. And instead of holding on tighter… you let go.

We said we’d stay close. Friends. That stupid word. Friends.

What kind of friend still dreams about the taste of your lips? What kind of friend stays up replaying old voicemails, wondering if the “I love you” at the end was real — or just a habit?

I haven’t deleted a single photo of us. Not out of hope. Out of heartbreak. Deleting them would be like admitting you’re really gone.

And yet, you are. You’re gone — into his world. Carrington’s world.

He’s beautiful, in that curated, polished way. Model. Influencer. Perfect smile, perfect past, perfect press. You look good on his arm. Too good. But when I see you together, I can’t help but wonder — does he know how much you hate small talk? That you only drink tea when you’re anxious? That you hum when you brush your teeth? That your worst fear is being forgotten?

Because I haven’t forgotten. Not even for a second.

I saw you last week. You were walking into that event — all eyes on you and him. I should’ve looked away. Should’ve kept my distance like we promised. But I couldn’t. I watched you walk past like a stranger, wearing a scent I didn’t recognize and a smile that wasn’t for me.

And I died a little right there.

Do you know what it’s like to still love someone so loudly, while they love someone else in silence?

I keep telling myself to move on. That if you’re happy, that should be enough for me. But it’s not. It’s never been.

Because when I close my eyes, I still see you and me — not this carefully filtered version you’ve built with him.

When people ask about you, I smile and say we’re “back to friends.”

But if I’m honest?

I don’t want to be your friend. I want to be the person you call when the world feels too loud. The person you run to, not the one you ran from. The one who holds you at 2 a.m., not the one watching you through a screen, pretending he’s okay.

I want you. Still. Always.

And maybe that’s pathetic. Maybe I’m the only one left feeling this way. But if you ever feel it too — even just for a second — If you ever find yourself lying next to him, wondering why your heart feels hollow…

You know where to find me. I’ll be right here. Still in love. Still yours. Still not ready to just be friends.