I searched for you in every corner of my world, until I realised I was the one missing.
The weather was oddly calm that day. The sky, paint ed with shades of grey, seemed to hold back its tears. A light breeze brushed past the trees, making their leaves rustle gently. The pond sat still, its surface reflecting the gloom above. A few birds chirped half-heartedly, as if unsure whether to sing or stay silent. Everything about the park felt heavy. But why am I telling you this? Isn’t every park like this? Green grass, scattered benches, and a sense of stillness that feels the same everywhere? Yet, this place was different for me. It wasn’t just a park it was a graveyard. A graveyard of dreams, hopes, and a version of me I wasn’t sure existed anymore. This was the place I used to come with her. Every corner, every path, every bench seemed to whisper her name. The laughter we shared, the conversations we had they were everywhere. But now, those memories didn’t bring joy. They weighed me down like invisible chains, pulling me deeper into thoughts I didn’t want to face. And yet, I kept coming back. Why? Maybe because I was searching for something her, myself, or just a reason to move forward. I didn’t know. All I knew was that this place held the echoes of a past I couldn’t let go of, even when it hurt. Like me, you might have your own “park” a place where you’ve left pieces of yourself, wondering if you’ll ever get them back. That park was my escape. It didn’t judge me, didn’t ask ques tions, and didn’t expect answers I couldn’t give. It just exist ed, patiently waiting for me to untangle the mess in my head. The first time I sat there, I thought I’d spend an hour at most, but one hour turned into two, two turned into evenings, and soon, I found myself returning every day. By the time you finish reading, you’ll meet others who’ve sat on this very bench. Some have laughed here, some have cried, and some have, like me, been forced to confront the questions they didn’t want to answer. But that’s what this is: a story of questions, of finding yourself, and maybe, just maybe, of learning to love again. For a long time, I blamed them, whoever they were. Then I blamed the circumstances, the timing, the universe. But as I sat there, watching the ripples in the pond settle and the ducks glide in effortless harmony, a thought crept in: maybe the person I was truly angry at was me. That’s the thing about losing yourself it happens so gradual ly, so quietly, that you don’t even notice until it’s too late. It’s in the compromises you make, the silences you keep, and the boundaries you let slip. My journal lay open on my lap, its pages teasing me to revisit a letter I never sent. Dear You,” it began, I thought losing someone like you would be the hardest thing in life. But I was wrong. The hardest part is losing myself in the process of holding on to you.” “It’s been two years now. Two years since we parted ways, two years since I cried myself to sleep, wondering if I’d ever be okay again. When you broke up with me, it felt like my whole world had fallen apart. You were such a big part of my life that, when you were gone, it left this huge, hollow space I didn’t know how to fill. I didn’t know how to move on or even how to exist without you. I kept going over our memories again and again, replaying every moment, every conversation, asking myself if I could’ve done something differently if there was some way we could’ve made it work. For many months, there wasn’t a single day I didn’t cry. It felt like the pain would never end, like I was stuck in this endless loop. Every little thing reminded me of you, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop the tears from coming. I don’t hate you; I hate what happened. I just couldn’t bring myself to hate you, no matter how much it hurt. I can’t deny that you were the one who showed me what love really is, what it feels like to be loved. I still think about those mornings at Energy Park, the first sleepless night we spent together, and the way I felt when you came to my house for the first time. If anything, I wish you well. I hope you’ve found peace, hap piness, and everything you’ve been looking for. And how unlucky I am. I have no way to reach out to you, no way to even check how you’re doing. Unlike you, who can just call me randomly after months of disappearing, as if nothing ever happened. You always had that privilege, while I was left with nothing just memories, unanswered questions, and the hope that maybe, one day, I’d hear from you again. the what- ifs and the hope that maybe we could somehow find our way back to each other. So, this is it. I couldn’t even say goodbye to you in person be cause your stubbornness made that decision for both of us. I wanted closure, a chance to look you in the eye one last time, but you didn’t let that happen. It hurt then, and honestly, it still does. This is me releasing the past, the pain, the questions, and even the love we once shared. I’m leaving it all here, in this letter. I wish I could hate you.” I wrote those words months ago, but they still felt fresh. Back then, I believed closure would come by writing this letter, that maybe if I poured my heart out, it would silence the echoes of everything I wanted to say but never could. Yet, the letter stayed unsent. Perhaps, I was never writing it for you; I was writing it for me. At the time, I had no idea what those days in the park would lead to. I didn’t know they would become the foundation for this book, the place where strangers became confidants, and where heartbreak turned into understanding. It was there, sit ting on that weathered bench by the pond, that I realized the stories we carry can’t be buried they have to be told, even if only to ourselves. The park became more than just a setting it became a witness to my journey and to the journeys of others who stumbled into my life. It held conversations that made me question ev erything I thought I knew, memories that forced me to let go, and lessons I didn’t know I needed to learn. If you’re holding this book, you’re about to walk into those moments with me. I had no idea then that the park would be the stage for stories of love, loss, and self-discovery. But now, as I write this, I realize it’s not just my story. It’s a story for anyone who has sat on a bench, looked at the world around them, and wondered how to put the pieces back together.
“We spend years learning how to love, and seconds learning how to lose. What no one teaches us is how to remain ourselves in between.”