The Second Goodbye

The first time he lost her, it felt like life was just reminding him what heartbreak was supposed to feel like. It hurt — but time dulled it. He threw himself into work, art, and little moments that distracted him from the way she used to laugh. Eventually, the ache turned into a memory.

Then, one day, she came back.

Like a ghost from a song he thought he’d stopped humming. Her name lit up his phone, and suddenly all those walls he built didn’t seem so strong anymore.

This time felt different.

They talked for hours again — about life, the things they’d missed, the ways they’d both grown. He made her smile again, made her laugh until her eyes glowed. She told him nobody had ever done the things he did for her. That no one made her feel that seen. And when they finally saw each other again — when they cuddled, when they kissed — it felt like fate had hit “rewind” just to give them another shot.

But then, the words came.

Cold. Final. “I’m not really attracted to you. You’re so sweet, but it’s not me.”

She blamed height, hair, things that fade and mean nothing to someone who knows what real love feels like.

He blocked her. Not out of anger, but survival.

Because how do you keep staring at someone who already turned away twice?

That night, he cried. Not the quiet kind — the kind that comes from your chest, where the truth lives.

He wasn’t crying for her, not really.

He was crying for every version of himself that had believed — the one who waited, the one who hoped, the one who thought love was enough.

And maybe it still is.

Because somewhere inside that pain, he realized something — he didn’t lose because he cared. She lost because she couldn’t.

And one day, when she scrolls through her memories and sees his name, she’ll remember the guy who made her smile when she swore she couldn’t.

And he’ll be long past the pain — building, creating, living — with a heart that still dares to love, even after the second goodbye.