He walked out of the sports room slowly—not because he was tired, but because his mind had stopped somewhere behind him. He tried convincing himself:
"Bro, relax… she wasn't her. Just looked like her."
But the brain doesn't listen to logic.
It listens to memories.
Her face.
Her smile.
The way she paused before walking away.
Everything replayed in a loop he didn't ask for.
He stepped outside, sat on the cement stairs, and stared at nothing—yet feeling everything. Under his breath, barely audible even to himself, he whispered:
"I don't miss her… but damn, I miss the times we had."
Moments never ask permission to stay.
They carve their place inside you.
She had always acted mature around others, but with him, she turned into someone soft, playful—someone who felt safe. And he liked that version of her more than he ever admitted.
But the moment reality entered the room—her father, their religions, their future—everything inside her collapsed.
He still remembered the way she hugged him that day.
Not a simple hug.
Not a request for comfort.
It was a drowning person clinging to the last floating wood.
"Please," she had whispered, voice trembling, "try convincing him again…"
But she had already been punished for loving him.
And he wasn't the kind of man who would let a girl suffer just to keep a relationship alive.
So they sat for hours, two young hearts trying to think like adults, even though both of them felt like helpless children trapped in a world too strict for their love.
They didn't break up that day.
But the end had already entered the room.
A few days later, she accepted it.
No fights.
No curses.
No blocking or running.
Just two people letting go with quiet dignity.
He didn't message her after that—not because he didn't want to, but because he cared too much. He wanted her to heal faster. He wanted her life to be smoother without him.
Yet today…
that one familiar face woke up an ache he thought he had buried:
"Only if her father was kinder…"
"Only if she belonged to my religion…"
"Only if life was simple…"
And the hardest truth of all:
"If she texted 'I miss you' today… I'd feel sad.
Not because I don't love her,
but because I tried so hard to help her forget me."
He wasn't scared of loving her again.
He was scared of hurting her again.
But if life changed one day—if her father finally said yes, if she returned freely—
He knew exactly what he'd do:
"I would welcome her with open arms."
Some people don't get replaced.
Not in one year.
Not in five.
Not in a lifetime.
He wasn't waiting for her.
He was simply honest.
And honesty always leaves a mark.