The Love That Stayed… and the Words That Never Came

His mum said it more than once - that even after we separated, it was clear there was still love between us.

“You brought him coffee and gifts every chance you got,” she reminded me. “And when you were sick with pneumonia, he was the one who took you to the hospital.” Small things, maybe. But intimate. Tender. Love in its quietest form.

If there was still love between us, then why did it feel so draining? Why were we always at odds, always walking on the edge of misunderstanding? Was it pride? Fear? Pain too deep for either of us to reach across?

If he loved me, why couldn’t he just say it?

He signed the divorce papers. He could’ve ignored them. He could’ve fought for us, or even just said, “Don’t do this.” Instead, I waited - not for a grand gesture, but for something simple: an apology. One sincere sorry for the harsh, cruel words he said to me five years ago. I needed to hear that he knew he’d hurt me. That he saw me. That I mattered.

But no apology ever came.

And still, in the end, he kept our photos. Our marriage certificate. He held onto them, even as he let go of us.

That contradiction stays with me. Like a whisper of a life we could’ve had, if only we had learned how to love each other in the way we both needed.
Not through silence. Not through sacrifice. But with softness. With honesty. With healing.

Maybe that’s what love was for us - ever-present but never fully expressed.
Maybe he loved me in the only way he knew how.

But part of me will always wonder…
Why was it easier to let me go than to say, “I’m sorry”?
Why was it so hard for us to find our way back — when pieces of us had never really left?

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