For years I believed memories faded with time. I was wrong. They simply learn how to hide.

I remember standing there, convinced that distance would change everything. The landscape remained. Only I returned as someone else.

You left without saying goodbye. For a long time I thought that was the wound. Now I think the wound was waiting for words that never came.

Some afternoons remain unfinished. You keep walking long after the conversation has ended.

We spent years trying to understand each other. Perhaps we were never meant to understand. Only to remain visible in the distance.

I no longer remember the road itself. Only the feeling of knowing that I could not go back.

There are houses that belong to nobody. And yet every time I see them, I feel expected.

I spent years searching beneath the surface of things. Most answers disappeared the moment I touched them.

Certain nights return without warning. Not as memories.As weather.

I no longer remember what we talked about. Only the feeling of walking home afterwards.

Every departure carries a small act of faith. You leave believing that something awaits you on the other side.

Time does not heal. It rearranges. It places old names in different rooms.

For a moment I thought it had vanished. Then I understood: some things survive precisely because they cannot be held.