We met in quiet corners of the night, two voices trembling through the static, finding warmth where the world felt cold, finding home in each other’s words. You were a face I never touched, but somehow, I knew every smile, every way you’d tilt your head when you laughed at something small. We built a world between us — made of hopes, of secret promises, of late-night “I love you”s whispered like confessions to the moon. Every morning felt brighter because somewhere, you existed, because my heart had finally found someone who spoke its language. But love, it seems, is fragile when hidden behind closed doors. You told me your parents found out — your voice cracked, like glass breaking. I could hear the fear between your breaths, the weight of rules you couldn’t bend. You said, “They don’t understand, and they never will.” I tried to tell you we’d find a way — that maybe time would change their minds, that distance couldn’t kill something this real, this young, this true. But even as I spoke, I heard it — the quiet in your silence, the way your heart was breaking too. You said, “I can’t fight them, not yet, not now. I’m so sorry.” And I swear the world stopped turning. The air felt heavier, colder. There was no argument, no anger, just two people forced apart by something neither could control. And that hurt the most of all. Because you were never mine to lose — but you were everything I wanted. And now all I have are echoes of your voice in my head. I keep our messages like prayers, screenshots of things that once felt infinite — your jokes, your goodnights, your “someday.” God, how that word used to shine. But someday never came. And I’m learning how to let go of a love that never got to live.