5.Letting Go

After that day, things were never the same between us. We still met at church, still crossed paths in the corridors, but something had changed not in him, but in me.

I told myself it was better this way. That if I could just smile, act normal, and keep my distance, maybe my heart would learn to stop hoping. But it didn’t. Every time I saw him, that quiet ache returned, like a wound that refused to heal.

At school, everyone noticed I had started calling him “brother.” It sounded strange at first, even to me. The first time I said it, his face flickered surprised, maybe a little hurt but he smiled anyway. That smile made it worse.

I wanted him to be okay. I wanted to be okay too. But pretending was easier than admitting how much it hurt.

The next few weeks passed like that silence and small talks. He’d still wave at me in the hallways. Sometimes he’d walk beside me, talking about things that didn’t matter, exams, choir practice, the weather. I’d nod and laugh at the right times, but my heart wasn’t really there.

I tried to find comfort in routine. I studied harder, joined extra practice sessions at church, spent more time with my friends. They said I seemed happier, more focused. Maybe I did. But inside, everything felt numb.

One evening, after choir practice, I stayed behind to arrange the hymn books. Ethan was still there, fixing the microphones. The church was quiet, the last bit of sunset shining through the stained glass.

He walked over and asked softly, “You’re okay, right?”

I looked up at him. He meant it. His voice was gentle, like he could feel the wall I had built between us.

“Of course,” I said quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He studied my face for a moment, then smiled. “Just making sure.”

That was all. He turned away, and I watched him go. That small exchange should’ve been nothing ,but it stayed in my mind for days. His kindness made everything harder. How do you move on from someone who’s done nothing wrong?

A few days later, I saw him laughing with some friends near the playground. One of the girls touched his arm as she spoke, and he didn’t move away. I looked for too long, then forced myself to turn. That was the moment I decided ,I had to stop this.

I went home and pulled out an old notebook. Inside were small notes we had exchanged during choir meetings, small doodles he’d drawn on my assignments, even a folded piece of paper with his handwriting from last Christmas. I stared at them for a long time. Then, one by one, I tore them out and placed them in a box.

Not because I hated him ,but because I loved him too much to keep holding on.

That night, I didn’t cry. I just sat on my bed, hugging that box, feeling the silence around me. It was strange ,the pain wasn’t sharp anymore. It was slow and dull, like something you learn to live with.

At school, I stopped waiting for him after class. I started taking different routes home. When he waved, I still waved back, but from a distance. Sometimes I caught him looking at me like he wanted to say something. But I looked away. If I met his eyes, I knew I’d fall all over again.

Months passed, and soon graduation season came. I watched him and his friends take pictures, laughing freely. I stood in the crowd, clapping, smiling for everyone else. He didn’t see me that day, and maybe that was for the best.

There were moments when I almost told him the truth ,when my chest felt too heavy to hold it in. But then I’d remember that rumor, the one about him proposing, and everything inside me froze again. I had already promised myself I wouldn’t go through that pain twice.

One Sunday after service, he came up to me again. “You’re singing in the farewell program, right?”

I nodded. “Yes. One last time.”

He smiled softly. “You’ll do great.”

“Thank you,” I said. My voice trembled, but I hoped he didn’t notice.

When he walked away, I turned toward the altar, my hands clasped tight. The choir began practicing, but my thoughts drifted elsewhere. I realized how much I’d prayed for him ,for his happiness, for his peace ,and not once for him to come back to me. Maybe that’s what love really was.

When the program ended that evening, I sang one last hymn. The church was quiet except for the echo of my voice. I didn’t look at him once. I couldn’t. My tears would’ve betrayed me.

After everyone left, I walked home alone. The night air was cool, carrying the sound of crickets and the faint ringing of bells. I looked up at the stars and whispered his name, not out of longing, but out of gratitude ,for every memory, every laugh, every unspoken word.

I knew I’d never forget him. Some people stay in your heart, even when they’re no longer part of your life.

That night, I placed the small box of memories in my drawer. I didn’t throw it away. I just closed it gently, like closing a chapter I still loved too much to end.

And for the first time in months, I smiled. Not because I was healed, but because I finally understood ,letting go doesn’t always mean you stop loving someone. Sometimes, it means you love them enough to let the story rest.

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