Even though I knew we were growing apart, I didn't bother trying to hold on.

I thought it wasn't that our love had changed, but just that we had grown comfortable. Even when the calls decreased and conversations grew shorter, I brushed it off, saying, "That's just how dating is~"

Every time you said you were hurt, I gave half-hearted answers, citing exhaustion, and pushed things off, saying we'd see each other next time. Because I believed there would always be a next time.

Strangely, the quieter you became, the more comfortable I felt. Because I didn't have to explain myself anymore, and I didn't have to accommodate you.

Even when I heard the words "Let's break up," I wasn't surprised. Because I had a groundless confidence that you would come back if I just held onto you.

But only after you truly left did I realize.

I didn't know the nights when no one calls would feel this long, and I didn't know that when the person who thought of my day first disappeared, everything would become this empty.

The period of boredom has passed. But you passed by along with it.

Only now do I realize. What I lost wasn't just love, but the version of myself that was loved.

And the fact that I can't take it back makes me regret it every single day.