We broke up three years ago this week. On Valentine’s Day, of all days. Do you remember? Three years later I’m still confused if I should call what we had a legit romantic relationship. Even more unsure if I should be brooding this long.

I wanted us to be official. You weren’t sure. My heart broke then.

But we soldiered on. We always did, didn’t we?

And then things got tough.

I thought I’d catch my breath for a while, from trying to keep us afloat. You said it wasn’t worth it and suggested we just ended it. And so we did.

My heart shattered.

You moved on. Pretty quickly. Or at least it looked like you did. With so much grace. And a few new faces, to boot. It felt like you made sure I knew. I couldn’t tell if you were having a hard time, too.

You wanted to stay friends. As we agreed even before we started dating. So we stayed in touch. I didn’t want any different. I could’t fathom not having you around at all.

I kept watch from afar. I went about my own way of coping, all the while remaining as curious as I always was about how you were doing. I couldn’t look away. I tried so hard. I never thought I’d have to.

But I had to. Because there you were, living your new chapter. Out loud. Without me in the picture. It puzzled me. I never had a problem being friends with my exes — but with you… The pain was just too much. I never did understand how people could put up with things that make their heart reel in pain, while having to keep their mouth shut. Why couldn’t I? How could you? Did you even have to?

I took a step back, and three months later, came knocking on your door once more. I was ready to be friends. My heart just needed time. Having to shift gears — and that too, when I didn’t want to — was never its thing. It still isn’t.

You responded, and so we tried. Starting from scratch was not only not fun, but painful. I always took pride in being a fast-learner. But this one was tough to crack.

There’s a reason I once said to you that I think I was made for loving you. I no longer knew how to do any less than that, with you. I didn’t want to.

But I was willing to take all that I could get. And friendship was all you had left to give. So I had at it.

I never liked muddy waters. They don’t look and feel safe, to me. And man, that part of our journey was MURKY. I had such a hard time. But our friendship was our beacon. So we paddled. You even guided me through it. Like you always did.

Slowly, I would ease my way into the swing of things. Into this new dynamic. It was a strange place to wade through — re-building a friendship. Especially, when it seemed almost like there was nothing to build on. And most especially, when deep down I knew I still wanted more.

But I kept paddling. I could’ve sworn I felt you were, too. I found comfort knowing we’ve almost made it back to shore. Together. Just like we always hoped.

Until I landed there alone. Somewhere in the muck of trying — trying to not get tired of trying, I lost you. I wondered if somehow you’d emerge from the waves. Like I knew you would — if you wanted to.

I waited for you to show up. Days, weeks, months, a year and a half later, at some point I realised I had to walk this wilderness alone. Remember that time we talked about walking this way together?

But you weren’t there. Where did you go?

Also, why?

I walked on with my questions. I walked scared. I cried so many tears. I tried so many things in the name of survival. There were moments I felt the pull to go back the way I came, to check if maybe you just had to catch your breath. Because the trail was so difficult, maybe you were having a hard time, too. But all I saw were my footprints. Not only were you not there, I realised no one else was supposed to walk through it with me. At least not in the way I wanted someone to. This part, I needed to do on my own.

And so I continued walking. I would still look back every once in a while, but I’ve been here long enough and I look back a lot less now than I am moved to look around me. In awe, and sometimes — a lot of times — in tears.

Because you were right. It is beautiful out here. It’s the kind of beauty that just demands my full, undivided attention. I’m blown away every single day. Why did I fear walking this way?

Sometimes though, I wonder if I’d look at things the way I do now, if we made it here together. I don’t know a better way to say this: A part of me misses you.

And this part will probably miss you for as long as this wilderness begs to be explored in solitude. The kind of missing that accepts that you may never show up. The kind that welcomes the idea that perhaps missing someone is part of this messy, scary, sometimes lonely, but no less beautiful trail called life. The kind that brings out words the way they’ve never been brought out of someone before — it’s almost like they write themselves. And really why would you want to blot this part out?

Still I wonder how you are. Where you are. Do I cross your mind around this week every year, too?

I hope you’re well. And as stubborn as this might sound to the people who’ve been with me in the trenches, I still toy with the idea of meeting you again someday. But in case the last time we spoke is indeed the very last time, I hope you know I’m thankful we met. I’m grateful I experienced trying to get to know someone the way I did with you — the way I never did again, since. I’m even more grateful someone took the time to get to know me the way you did. More than being loved, I always took a lot of joy in being known. That’s something I felt you always knew.

And you knew me well — very well — for the person that I was then. You took your time and got to know me in ways no one else could. And now I’ve come to think you let me go because you knew I needed it. I hated you for it. But only because I loved you so much I didn’t want to do anything without you. And because I didn’t know then what I know now.

Because I do see it now. I see love differently now. And just. .. Thank you.