Do you sit and wonder if it all started differently and we fell in love at the start, or if it crashed and burned so completely, so hard, that I wouldn’t lie awake tearing my heart apart? If the ending had shattered, loud, cruel, and final, left no soft echoes, no lingering maybe, I could close the book, call the story denial, and stop checking shadows for the ghost of you, baby. But the quiet cuts deeper than any loud fight, no grand explosion, just a slow fading light, so I’m still here wondering late at night— are you somewhere out there still thinking of me tonight? Would’ve been cleaner if hatred had won in the end, if betrayal or anger had drawn the last line, then moving on wouldn’t feel like pretending, and your name wouldn’t still feel like it’s mine. Yet here I remain, caught in soft what-could-have-beens, tracing old pathways where love might have stayed, hoping the silence means nothing, praying it means you still feel the same.