Ella sat in her car outside the small coffee shop on Maple Street. She hadn’t been inside in months, not since James left. But there she was, again, like muscle memory had driven her straight there.
The truth was, she missed more than just him. She missed them the version of herself that laughed too loud, that always ordered the same cinnamon latte, that felt wanted. That coffee shop was their Sunday spot, the place where everything still felt whole.
And even though he was long gone moved to another city, another life , she kept circling back to the places and moments they shared, like an old song stuck on repeat.
Letting go, people told her, was about moving forward. “It’s been over a year,” her friends would say. “You deserve better. You need to let go.”
But no one talks about how we don’t just hold onto people we hold onto meaning. The why behind it all. For Ella, James wasn’t just a person. He was comfort. He was possibility. He was the future she’d painted in her head when everything else was falling apart.
Letting go felt like deleting a piece of her own story.
She reached for the door handle, but her hand paused. Her heart ached in that familiar, quiet way.
See, we don’t always struggle because we’re weak. Sometimes we struggle because something or someone once made us feel seen, loved, alive. And losing that doesn’t just feel like change. It feels like grief.
So Ella didn’t go in that day. She didn’t rush to replace the memory or force healing like a task to check off a list. She just sat there, let it hurt a little, and reminded herself: letting go isn’t about forgetting. It’s about slowly learning to carry the love forward without clinging to the pain.
It’s messy. It takes time. But that’s okay.
Because maybe letting go is less about release, and more about understanding why we’re still holding on.
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