Confession: I Loved the Way You Left

You disappeared like a dream—
gently enough to hurt forever.

I loved the way you left.
Not the leaving itself,
but the way you did it—
gracefully,
gently,
like a dream fading at dawn.

You didn't slam the door.
You didn't break things.
You didn't leave a mess.

You just... disappeared.
Like mist in the morning,
like a shadow at noon,
like a memory fading.

You left gently,
and that made it worse,
because gentle goodbyes
hurt more than angry ones.

If you had left in anger,
I could have been angry back.
If you had left in pain,
I could have shared the pain.

But you left gently,
and I had nothing to hold onto,
nothing to fight against,
nothing to blame.

You just... faded away,
like you were never there,
like it was all a dream,
like I imagined you.

I loved the way you left,
because it was beautiful,
because it was graceful,
because it was you.

But I hated it too,
because it was too easy,
because it was too gentle,
because it hurt too much.

You disappeared like a dream,
gently enough to hurt forever,
beautifully enough to haunt me,
gracefully enough to break me.

So here's my confession:
I loved the way you left,
because it was beautiful,
because it was you,
because it was the perfect ending
to an imperfect story.

You left like poetry,
like art,
like a song that fades to silence.

You left gently,
and I loved it,
and I hated it,
and I'll never forget it.

You disappeared like a dream,
gently enough to hurt forever,
and I loved the way you left,
because it was the only thing
that could have broken me
so completely.

I loved the way you left,
because it was beautiful,
and beautiful things
hurt the most.

You disappeared like a dream,
gently enough to hurt forever,
and I loved it,
because it was the only way
you could have left
that would have been perfect.

I loved the way you left,
because it was the only way
you could have left
that would have been beautiful.

And beautiful endings
hurt forever.