Sometimes, I still think back to when I lost you. Back when I thought you were my one and only. For some reason, my naive mind saw in you everything it had ever craved for. I thought I had it all in those five months, and when it was taken away from me oh, so sudenly... I thought I could never recover.

Almost 5 years have passed and I am once again being haunted by the ghost of you. It wasn't enough to fix what you broke inside of me. It took me months to even realize how much you hurt me even before you sent me that text. I couldn't blame you at first, I could only blame myself and all I felt was despair. It felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest. It felt like I was dumped in a cold, dark street. Because it didn't make sense to not have you around. I remember what it was like to see you walking down the hallways and feel the burn behind my eyes. What it was like to cry every night for months, feeling like I was nothing without you. Trying to move on, trying to love anything else, only to forget how much I loved you.

Yes, I was so young and how was I supposed to know any better? I wanted you so bad that I chose to ignore what happened, I chose to ignore how I was pushing myself over my limit to be with you.

Because, no, you didn't first break my heart when you sent me that text saying you couldn't be with me anymore. You first broke my heart ten days before that when you took me to your house when nobody else was there. And we fought the whole way there for reasons I can't even remember. But I remember being so upset with you once we arrived at your house. But we had gone through so much trouble to get this one day alone, this once in a lifetime chance... And I knew how much you wanted it. I knew you wouldn't put up with me for much longer if I didn't give it to you. I knew... I thought I knew so many things. And I thought I was ready, because sex wasn't something I was totally new with, you know? I didn't think taking a step further would be that much of a big deal.

But it was to me. Because I wanted it to feel good. I wanted to feel loved and cared for. And all it made me feel was like a disposable doll, like some piece of trash you could extract your pleasure from. And I wanted to please you so bad that when you asked me if I really wanted to do it, I said yes. Even if a couple minutes later I was screaming inside my head, hoping it would end soon. Hoping I could get away. And I went to the bus stop and you didn't stay with me, even if it was something you always used to do. I felt so lonely, so empty inside. I didn't want to make you feel pressured to give me attention, but I warned you, didn't I? I told you I would need you afterwards, that I would need reassurance.

And I changed after it. I became sad and clingy. And ten days were all you could handle of it before you quit. I think I never told you what I felt, that I take responsability for. You probably never found out how terrible it felt during and afterwards. And you'll never know how much it weighted on every sexual encounter I had ever since. Even five years later. You'll never know how much it made me feel dirty and unwanted. You'll never know how much I cried, even years after it, even when I no longer loved you, when seeing you was my worst nightmare.

It's not anymore. A couple of months ago, I talked to you for the first time in four years. And it felt weird. My heart raced. I think it was fear. I avoided it for such a long time, but the day finally came. You asked me something, I answered. I knew I wouldn't be able to avoid it for too long ever since you started to attend the same religious place that I do. You were there because of your girlfriend, the one you dated after me — and to think that in that time I stumbled through three different relationships. And it was hard to see you, everytime. But I think that when this barrier was broken, when you first talked to me in so long, I was somehow released.

My pain is still here, but I no longer want to relate it to you. I realize now that you were also so young. I found in myself forgiveness. But, for some reason, I still didn't find peace. I forgive you and seeing you is not as hard as it used to be — although it's not as natural as it should be, my brain is always super-aware when you're around — but the marks, the broken pieces inside of me are still broken. The repulsive sensation I feel sometimes when I get as far as thinking of having sex, the anxiety taking over me when I'm touched, they're still there. They're still haunting me. And I don't know if I need closure, if I need you to know I felt all of this or if I only have to wait for time to mend it. But I know what I want to feel when I see you. I want to feel indifferent. I want to not even realize you're there. I want to forget I ever even touched you like that. I want to look at you and not feel awkward. I want to be able to be free and do with my body what I want.

I still don't know if I'll ever be free. Maybe sex won't ever feel good. Maybe I'm still too young. Maybe I still haven't forgiven you as much as I thought I did. I'm here writing this piece, am I not? Even with other heartbreaks to tell. Even if I am now with someone else. And the reason I'm doing it is because I still can't answer one simple question.

Will it ever stop hurting?

There's no going back to what it was. When you lose someone you love, something inside of you changes forever. And just like a crumpled up piece of paper never goes back to being perfect again, we'll never be ourselves again, not like before. Because everything that reminds you of them will never look the same. It will bring you joy some days and infinite pain in others. It will bring you to your knees crying and it will make you smile your brightest smile.

There's no formula to grieving and there's no perfect time to heal. Some people never do, even nine, fifteen years later, the wound is still just as open as in day one. And other people will learn how to live with that small piece of them that is now gone, that part of them that only existed when that significant other was there. Me, I'm in between.

You change, and that's the only constant in losing someone you love. And the more you try to go back to what it was, the more you will suffer. They're gone, but their memories are just as alive as they ever were. Even when they start to fade, because time tries to take it all away, we'll always remember what they meant to us. Sometimes, I feel sad because I can't remember what my granddad's voice sounded like, sometimes I cry because I remember how much he loved me and how often he would show it.

I still cry, even with almost ten years to heal, and I have healed plenty. But I don't hate to miss them, my grandpa and my aunt. I love to remember everything that they meant to me in the twelve years we spent together. It hurts, but I don't regret one single day I spent with them.

And that's losing the ones we love.

1. When did you begin to write?

I would always write when I was little, I had this notebook I'd carry around. It was full of poems and songs and stories. It died, eventually, as I grew up. I grew apart from writing and reading and all. But what is meant to be finds a way, right? I eventually started to write again when I was twelve. I went through a massive loss that turned my world upside down. Writing was a way of escaping from the pain I was so constantly feeling. It's been nine years and the pain is just the same, and writing still is the antidote.

2. What does writing give back to you? What is your ultimate writing goal?

Writing gave me happiness when I thought there was none. It connected me to a fictional world where I could be anyone and do anything I had ever dreamed. Writing became a part of every decision I made. It's the reason I'm studying social science, a field that requires a lot of writing. I felt like knowing more about society would improve my writing and my depiction of social interactions and struggles. It was a bit silly to choose it from this perspective, but I ended up liking it.

My ultimate goal is to write something I'm really proud of. I'm a very critical person and I'm never satisfied with what I do. And if someday I can finish a romance and look back at it and say: that's it, that's done and I like it. That day I'll have accomplished my ultimate goal.

It is something that has crossed my mind on multiple occasions. What if time could just stop? And then, it'd be just me and my thoughts. Of course, at first I thought I'd be productive, I'd finally feel like I had enough time to do what I was supposed to and maybe anxiety wouldn't take over me so easily. But then I think about the days when I had all the time in the world, not a single responsibility in my hands and all I could do was... sit there, motionless, scrolling down my phone. If I had such a powerful ability, would I use it to fulfill my addiction? Would my depression take over instead? Would I feel, after all, so completely powerless?

So, now, when I think about it, I try to be realistic. What would I really do? On most days, I think, I'd just sit there and do nothing. In others, I'd cry my heart out, letting go everything I have ever held back. Perhaps there'd be days on which I'd find the will to read a college paper and be very pleased with myself. Or write as much as I could. But those would be scarce, like water in the desert.

But what is the point about being realistic about something so hypothetical? I can't fool myself, but I can dream. In an ideal world, where time could stop just for me, I wish I'd make good use of it. Maybe I'd be able to go outside. Maybe I'd spend more time on the beach, watching the sea. Maybe I'd think more about the good things in my life than the bad ones. Maybe I'd read a good book in one go, with no worries in the world. Maybe I'd listen to music and dance and feel free. Maybe I'd do all these things that, in this world, far from ideal, I can't make myself do.

And then, I'd live a motion-full life in a motionless time.