Letters to a Love Lost

Love can seem invincible until the first cracks begin to appear. They're not always visible, not even obvious, but they can be felt. In silences that stretch longer than they should. In glances that avoid unspoken questions. In words that get stuck in your throat.

With Astrid, those cracks started as something almost imperceptible, like a murmur I could barely make out. But they were there, growing beneath the surface, fed by something I didn't fully understand: my fear.

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The Weight of Insecurity

There were days when Astrid's light seemed to illuminate every dark corner of my being. And while I should have felt lucky to have her by my side, all I felt was a growing shadow of insecurity.

How could someone like her, someone who saw beauty in everything, love someone like me? That question started to haunt me, echoing constantly in my mind, affecting the way I saw her—and the way I saw myself.

Astrid, of course, noticed my distance. She was too perceptive not to. But at first, instead of confronting it directly, she tried to bridge the gap in other ways. She left me notes on my nightstand, little reminders of how much I meant to her. She cooked for me, even though cooking wasn't her strong suit, laughing every time something went wrong.

One night in particular, after she'd almost burned dinner, I found her in the kitchen, laughing as she tried to salvage what was left of a stew.

"You don't have to do these things," I said, leaning against the doorframe.

She looked up and smiled, holding a spoon in her hand like she was about to surrender.

"But I want to," she replied, with a certainty that disarmed me.

I wanted to hug her in that moment, but instead, I just nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. Her love was so simple, so pure, that it made me feel like a fraud. And though I wanted to give her the same in return, there was something inside me that kept me distant, trapped in my own fears.

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The Night on the Balcony

I remember one particular night, one of those that still haunts me in moments of clarity. We were on the balcony of my apartment, looking out at the city that stretched before us. Astrid had a glass of wine in her hand, and her hair shimmered under the dim light spilling out from inside.

"Do you ever think about the future?" she asked suddenly.

The sound of her voice cut through the silence in a way that felt almost painful.

"All the time," I replied.

"And how do you see me in that future?"

Her question caught me off guard. Not because I didn't have an answer, but because I knew the answer she was hoping for wasn't one I could give her in that moment.

"I see you there," I said, trying to smile, but feeling my words ring hollow, even to myself.

Astrid looked at me for a moment, narrowing her eyes as if she were trying to read something in my expression. Then she nodded and turned her gaze back to the horizon. The silence between us became palpable, like an invisible weight.

"Sometimes I think you think too much," she said finally.

I wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come. Because I knew she was right. My thoughts, my doubts, my fears—they were like an invisible wall between us, and though she could see it clearly, neither of us knew how to tear it down.

The wind blew, stirring her hair, and I stared at her, thinking about all the things I wanted to say but couldn't.

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Arguments That Came From Nothing

Over time, our conversations began to fill with awkward pauses, with little misunderstandings that turned into unnecessary arguments.

"I don't understand why you always keep things to yourself," she said one afternoon after I refused to tell her about something that had been bothering me at work.

"It's not important," I replied, trying to dismiss it.

"Of course it's important," she insisted. "Whatever happens to you matters to me."

Her sincerity disarmed me, but instead of opening up to her, I closed myself off even more.

"I don't want to put more weight on you," I said finally.

Astrid sighed, and this time she didn't try to hide her frustration. Her fingers tapped against the table, and when she finally spoke, her voice had an edge I rarely heard from her.

"It's not about carrying weight. It's about sharing."

It was such a simple truth, but one I couldn't accept in that moment. My own pride, mixed with my fear of being vulnerable, kept me from being completely honest with her. And every time I shut her out, I felt like I was losing her a little more.

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The Broken Promise

One night, Astrid asked me to go with her to an art exhibition she'd been looking forward to for weeks. I promised her I'd go, but when the day came, I found myself searching for excuses not to. I was tired, I said. It had been a hard week at work. I had a headache.

Astrid didn't argue. She just looked at me with a mix of disappointment and resignation that made me feel smaller than I already felt.

"Okay," she said, picking up her bag. "I'll see you later."

That night, as I sat alone in my apartment, I realized that something fundamental had changed. Not in her, but in me. I was becoming someone I didn't want to be—someone who said he loved but didn't act like it.

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The Weight of the Cracks

The weeks that followed were marked by a silence we had never experienced before. Astrid was still affectionate, but there was something in her smile that seemed dimmed, as if she were holding parts of herself back. And in my selfishness, I didn't know how to fix the damage I had caused.

One night, as she slept beside me, I found myself thinking about the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. About how Orpheus had lost Eurydice not because he didn't love her, but because he couldn't resist the temptation to look back. I wondered if I was doing the same—losing her, not because I didn't love her, but because I couldn't face my own demons.

That was the first time I realized that our love, as deep as it was, wasn't invincible. And though I didn't know it yet, the cracks that had begun as murmurs would soon become an abyss impossible to cross.