August reminds me of something
a phrase you once left behind, as if August were only a month, and not a room full of memories I still haven\'t learned to leave.
I loved you before I knew what love was supposed to mean. You were only a boy I found cute, a familiar face from childhood, and somehow, without permission, you became my favourite thought.
Four years ago, on the fourteenth of August, I made the first move. Perhaps that was the beginning or perhaps beginnings are only endings that haven\'t introduced themselves yet.
We were never quite a love story. Not completely. A little more than friends, a little less than forever, somewhere between I love you and what are we?
I remember asking you once, “Do you love me?” And you said you did. So I said it too, as if those three words could build us a home.
For a while, you were the place where I could put down all the things I carried alone. You knew the quieter parts of me. You made the world feel softer. You were the person I thought would understand even the things I could not explain.
And maybe I leaned too heavily on something that was never meant to hold my entire weight.
I made mistakes. I know I did. But I loved you with the clumsy sincerity of someone who had never learned how to love without being afraid of losing it.
Then, slowly, something changed.
You stopped feeling the same. And one sentence was enough to make an entire universe inside me go quiet.
I remember coming home after football practice, closing the door behind me, and opening our old conversations instead. I read everything. Every stupid joke. Every little confession. Every moment that once felt ordinary and now felt sacred.
I laughed while I cried. I cried while I laughed.
And somewhere between one message and the next, I understood you were no longer where I thought you were.
That night, August became something else.
A month that carried the sound of a heart breaking quietly enough for nobody to notice.
My father asked why my eyes were red. I lied. Not because I wanted to, but because some griefs have no explanation that sounds believable aloud.
So I sat there afterward, quietly undone, while the world continued as though nothing had happened. Nobody saw that version of me.
It was only me, the ceiling, the silence, and God. Four years have passed. And somehow, you are still here not mine, not gone, just somewhere between an old love and a friendship that refuses to disappear.
We still talk sometimes. We still care. Perhaps that is the strangest part that after everything, I cannot turn you into a stranger even if I tried. I watch time move forward.
I watch people find you in days and weeks, while I have spent four Augusts learning how to remember you without reaching for you.
Maybe that is what growing up is: not forgetting the person who once meant everything, but learning that love can remain somewhere without asking to be lived again.
So yes August reminds me of something. It reminds me of a boy I loved before I understood love. A conversation that changed everything.
A room where nobody heard me break. A version of myself I had to slowly gather back.
And you, still somewhere in the margins of a story that never quite became what we thought it would.
Four years later, I don\'t know what to call us. Maybe I don\'t need to. Some people are not meant to remain in your life as they first entered it. Some are simply meant to leave a season behind. And perhaps, every August, I remember ours