A goodbye I practiced for two years and finally meant.
As soon as the clock slips into 11:59 p.m. on December 31st,
I am letting go of you
leaving you tucked into the final chapter of 2025,
where you belong,
where I’ve held you for far too long.
I hear I can still talk about you.
Bet! just kidding.
Or maybe not.
Because part of me still clings to the ghost
of what we never became.
But truly, honestly,
when the last minute of this year arrives,
I’m walking out of the memory of you
I’ve carried since 2023,
leaving with whatever pieces of myself survive.
I can’t keep holding onto someone
who said I manipulated him
just by him asking me out
someone gentle and kind,
or maybe simply faithful to his Christian nature.
Someone who walked on long before I did.
Someone who healed in places
I am still bleeding from.
Someone who probably doesn’t remember
the sound of my feelings pouring out.
Maybe my confession was too frequent,
too raw,
too early.
So let me say everything now 🌬️
everything I swallowed,
everything I rewrote in my head a hundred times
but never spoke out loud.
I am sorry.
I am so sorry for offering you my heart
when yours wasn’t open.
I’m sorry for stepping forward
when you weren’t ready to move.
I’m sorry I wasn’t what you wanted
not enough,
not right,
not the version of perfection
you thought you needed beside you then.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be better for you,
even though we dated.
Because toward the end,
when you broke my heart,
you slowly disappeared
unreachable,
like a ghost I could no longer see through.
Technically, there was nothing to lose.
But my chest still aches
like something real broke anyway.
And now I see you with them.
My roommate streaks me your picture
as you both stroll through the night,
side by side,
wearing matching Sunday colors.
Maybe I’m overthinking it.
She leans close to you
like she knows the parts of you
I only hoped I’d touch someday
the parts I hoped you’d share with me.
All I can say is congratulations.
I am exhausted,
and I can’t wait anymore.
You look good together
like a story that finally found
its right beginning,
like I was the third party all along.
She’s sweet.
And you look lighter, happier
like you stepped into something
that finally fits you better
than I ever could.
I hear she cooks for you,
even your favorite meals.
I sincerely pray the best for both of you.
And I say sincerely
because I mean it more deeply
than you’ll ever know.
Still, I’ll talk about you
until this year runs out
in poems,
in journals,
in whispers tucked into the quiet corners of my thoughts
where your name still echoes.
I’ll hold your memory
until December 31st,
right up to the edge of that minute
before midnight folds the year shut
like a tired book.
But when the clock strikes 11:59,
when that last second trembles
on the rim of goodbye,
I’ll let you go.
I’ll leave you in 2025..
And even if my chest pulls tight,
even if I miss you
in ways I’ll never admit again,
every poem I wrote for you,
every piece of my heart
I stitched into words
even the ones you never had the chance to hear,
the ones I never posted on my blog
I know you follow
I’ll delete them all.
Not out of anger.
Not out of bitterness.
But because some stories
are meant to remain unfinished.
And some people
are meant to stay
in the year they broke you.
I haven’t been brave enough
to let you go since 2023.
But this is it.
My final truth.
My final promise.
My final release.
When the clock hits 11:59 p.m.
on December 31st,
I’m leaving you behind.
No looking back.
No holding on.
Just the soft ache of moving forward
from someone
who moved on first.
MEDMIMI 