Even in absence

Dear Clark,

I know you'll ever read this but I'm writing this because I need to, because my heart has been holding onto so much that it can no longer carry silently. Yesterday, September 18, you blocked me on Viber. I knew it might happen someday, but knowing didn't soften the blow. There's a heaviness in my chest that I can't seem to shake, a quiet ache that echoes through every moment I try to live without your presence.

Even in my sleep, you were there. I dreamt of us eating at Canton Road, the same place where we had our first post-Valentine's date on February 15. In the dream, the waiter recognized us, and we asked him if he had been working there that day. He said yes, and for a moment, I felt like time had folded itself back into those hours, when the world felt smaller, simpler, and ours. You wanted something red, and I laughed, telling you to order crabs or lobster, like we had before. Even the memory of that playful suggestion brings warmth to my chest, but it also reminds me of how much I miss having you near.

Today, I did nothing. I didn't try to distract myself. I didn't try to push the hurt away. I let it settle in, heavy and unavoidable, because pretending it doesn't exist would feel like denying a piece of myself. I lay in my bed, letting the silence wrap around me, thinking about the moment you closed the door on me. The permanence of it is terrifying, and I can't help wondering if there was something I could have done differently, something I could have said, something I could have been.

And then, like some cruel punctuation to the day, I discovered that my Instagram account was suspended, even though it was deactivated. Our joint account, the one where we stored months of memories, was suspended too. I don't know why. I can only hope that Instagram will restore it, that the pictures, the shared moments, the fragments of us frozen in digital space, can be returned. Those images are more than photos. They are pieces of our story, of the life we built together in small, tender moments. Losing them, even temporarily, feels like losing you all over again.

Clark, I want you to know that I remember. I remember the little things, the laughter, the jokes only we understood, the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn't noticing, the small gestures that made me feel loved. I remember February 15, and every other day that followed it, because they all carried traces of us. I remember the hope I felt in your presence, the quiet comfort of knowing we were a team in our own small world.

I don't write this to plead or beg. I don't write this because I expect something from you. I write this because my heart needs to speak, because even if the door is closed, the memories remain, and I can't pretend they don't. I need to acknowledge the love, the loss, and the ache that coexist inside me. I need to honor what we had, even if it cannot continue.

I also want to say that it hurts not just the absence of you, but the finality of your decision. Blocking me feels like more than distance; it feels like erasure. And yet, I cling to the fragments of us, the traces of our shared laughter and our quiet moments together. They are mine to hold, even if you have moved on. I will carry them gently, and I will let them remind me that we existed, that love touched my life.

I hope you are well, Clark. I hope your days are filled with light. I hope that whatever life you are building now brings you peace and happiness, because somewhere deep inside, I still want the best for you even if it cannot be with me.

And yet, I mourn. I mourn the things I cannot say, the moments we cannot reclaim, the plans we will not fulfill. I mourn the shared laughter, the quiet evenings, the small, irreplaceable intimacy of our time together. I mourn the absence of your voice, your presence, your understanding. But I also mourn in a way that honors what we had: tenderly, honestly, with a heart that refuses to let go entirely, even in your absence.

So, Clark, know this: I will remember. I will remember us, the love, the laughter, the stolen moments. And though the door is closed, I will carry the pieces of our story with me. They will live inside me, quietly, like a soft echo that never truly fades.

Even in absence, even in silence, even in heartbreak, I still hold on to the memories of you. I still hold on to what we had. And somehow, amidst the hurt, that is enough for now.

With all that I still feel,
Alyssa (Phineas, Arlo, Fifi, and Mang)

Last updated on:2025-09-22T20:52:02+05:30