Ever since I was young, I have always heard people say that real love comes only once in a lifetime. So, I’ve always been terrified of finding that love… and then being forced to let it go. Because you never really know, right?

What if that was it? What if you’re done, and you’re just stuck dealing with the heartbreak for the rest of your life?

How do I let go of something that helped shape who I am? Something I truly believed would last forever—my constant, my always. How do I forget what was my beginning and my only end?

How do I erase the feelings just enough to stop feeling them? And how do I find the closure I so desperately need when nothing feels finished?

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That’s the kind of heartbreak no one really prepares you for. You grow up thinking first love is supposed to feel magical—like butterflies and long texts and smiling at your phone for no reason. But no one really tells you how it can quietly mess you up.

How it can get into parts of you that you didn’t even know were there. No one prepares you for the way someone can feel like your entire world... and then just not be in it anymore.

This letter was never meant to be sent. I wrote it late one night, heart cracked open, with music playing that reminded me of things we don’t talk about anymore. It was just for me—to help me let go, to say goodbye in the only way I knew how.

But maybe someone out there needs to read it. Maybe someone is going through something similar. Maybe this will help them feel a little less alone.

So, here it is. The goodbye I never sent. The letter I wrote feeling very vulnerable and emotional.

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Dear You,

This letter isn’t really about you—not entirely. It’s about me. About everything I needed to say out loud, not because I wanted a response, but because I’m finally ready to let go.

For a while, I told myself I didn’t need closure. That I could just move on without naming what I was feeling. I buried a lot of things—confusion, hurt, disappointment.

But unspoken feelings have a way of sitting heavy on your chest, and eventually, they start to suffocate you. So here I am, writing this letter I’ll never send, trying to breathe again.

You were my first love. But more than that, you were my first goodbye that really hurt. And that kind of goodbye doesn’t just happen in one day—it unravels you slowly.

Some mornings I wake up and I am totally fine. Other days, I feel everything all over again just by seeing something that reminds me of you. But what hit the hardest wasn’t losing you—it was realizing how much of myself I had given away trying to keep this idea of love alive.

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It’s strange how you can care so much about someone and still know, deep down, that holding on isn’t doing either of you any good. I used to think letting go meant giving up. Like it made me weak. But now, I realize that sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is admit, “This isn’t working for me anymore,” and walk away—even if it breaks your own heart a little.

You taught me how to sit with myself. How to feel uncomfortable in silence and still be okay? You taught me that healing doesn’t happen in a straight line, life does not go the way you want it to go, but in a way that is meant for you.

You taught me that it's okay to feel things fully—even when it's confusing, even when it doesn't last. That feelings don't have to be permanent to be real. And that’s okay.

And I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned that I can miss someone and still choose not to go back. That I can be sad and still know I’m making the right decision. That closure doesn’t always come from a conversation—it can come from the decision to move forward even without answers.

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So here’s my real goodbye—not a dramatic ending, not a sad playlist, just... a quiet kind of peace. I’m no longer holding onto what could have been. I’m holding onto myself now. And maybe for the first time, that feels like enough.

I hope you’re doing okay. I really do. But more than that, I hope I keep doing okay.

I hope I keep choosing what’s best for me, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

I hope we will both find peace in this world. I hope we both will remind ourselves that we don’t have to stay in places where we feel small, or confused, or not enough. We are allowed to outgrow people, even ones we once loved.

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And that’s what this has been: not the end of everything, but the beginning of something better. Something quieter. Something mine.

So goodbye— goodbye to you and goodbye to the hope I kept tucked away, even when everything told me to put it down.

I don’t know what comes next. I don’t have it all figured out. But I do know this: letting go isn’t failure—it’s growth.

So goodbye—gently, finally, fully.

—Me