60 Days Of Spring

The first time he met her, he was the one who sent the first message. A random group chat in an online game, a fleeting moment that should’ve meant nothing. But she replied, and somehow, that changed everything

She came into his life in the spring, at a time when he was still haunted by the past. His first love had left him three years ago after a two-year relationship, yet the wounds never truly healed. No matter how much time passed, she remained a ghost in his mind, a shadow behind every love song, every late-night thought. He had tried to move on, but the past refused to let him go.

Then came her, the girl who always chilled with him. Days turned into weeks, their conversations stretching into the late hours of the night. Spring turned into summer, and with every passing day, she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could finally move on. She was witty, unpredictable, and full of hints he thought meant something more. She told him he was special. She laughed at his jokes even when they weren’t funny. She messaged him first, always. And in a world where people ghosted without a second thought, she stayed. Until she didn’t.

She was a fiction novel fan. The first book she ever read was It Ends With Us, but her favorite was Twisted Love. She loved stories that made her feel deeply, that blurred the line between love and obsession. Maybe that’s why she was drawn to intensity, to emotions that couldn’t be explained with logic.

She loved the moon and the clouds. She once said the moon reminded her of herself, always shining quietly in the dark. There was something magical in the way she spoke about it, like she saw her own soul reflected in the night sky. She was beautiful, just like the moon - not blinding, but soft and serene, with a glow that made people look twice and wonder what secrets she was hiding.

He always gave her hints, subtle but undeniable. And he was sure that she knew. From the very beginning, she must have known how he felt. Yet, she still talked to him. She still stayed. Maybe she liked the attention, maybe she enjoyed his company, or maybe, just maybe, there was a part of her that felt something too. But if she did, she never said it. Instead, she kept chilling with him, letting him fall deeper into something that was never meant to last.

She always told him she never wanted a relationship. That she never wanted to be someone’s girlfriend, never wanted to be someone’s wife. She was scared of relationships, of marriage, of promises that could be broken. She had been hurt before, her last boyfriend had cheated on her with another girl. She wasn’t wrong to be scared. But neither was he wrong to believe in something more.

One night, as they sat together, she said something that made his heart race. "If things were different, maybe..." She never finished the sentence, but in that moment, he believed. Maybe she had feelings for him too. Maybe she was just afraid to admit them. That single hope carried him forward, made him take the leap.

One day, he gathered all his courage and told her what he felt. That she wasn’t just another name in his contacts. That she was the reason his heart beat a little faster when he saw a notification. But she only smiled, through texts, through calls, through moments spent together and told him, “You’ll always be my close friend. All this? It’s just attraction.”

His world tilted. All the hints, the late-night whispers, the way she made him feel like he mattered - it was just an illusion? He wanted to ask if she had ever felt the same. If she had ever considered him more than just a presence beside her. But before he could find the words, she found someone else. He had choices, distractions - girls in his DMs, people who wanted his attention. But none of them felt like her. She was the first girl he ever proposed to, Not because he was desperate for love, but because for once, He believed in it. In her. Something about her made him forget the walls he built. He wasn’t chasing a moment. He was holding onto a feeling.

She cared for him, he knew that much. But no matter what, she still fell for another guy. Maybe she fought her feelings for him. Maybe she was just waiting for someone else all along. He would never really know. What he did know was that, suddenly, the hours she had once spent with him were reserved for another. The notifications stopped. The replies became delayed, then nonexistent. She started ignoring him when he came into her life. And he was left staring at their old chats, wondering if he had imagined everything.

He had never even cried for his ex. Despite the years spent together, despite the pain of losing her, he had never shed a tear. But for her, the girl who was never truly his, he cried. He cried for the memories, for the what-ifs, for the illusion of something that never existed. And that hurt more than anything.

After she left, after she chose someone else, he sat alone-quiet, unread, unheard. And in that silence, the truth screamed:

“She said it was just attraction. But it wasn’t. I loved her.”

He wasn’t someone who got attached easily. Not after being lonely for three years. He had stopped hoping, stopped expecting.

“I always expect disappointment, so I don’t get disappointed.”

That used to be his shield.

But this time... he let himself believe.

“With her, I expected hope. And hope, hope is the thing that ruins you.”

One day, she came back, said too much, and none of it was kind.

"It's not that big of a deal." she mocked, as if the love he carried was some passing whim.

She called him rude, but never stopping to look in the mirror herself.

She called him overdramatic.

He stayed silent.

Not because he had nothing to say,

But because he knew:

Words wouldn’t matter to someone who had already decided he didn't.

That night, he didn’t send her a message.

Instead, he wrote for himself:

She laughs in sunlight, a melody pure,

Her eyes like oceans, endless and sure.

But her gaze finds him - not me, never me,

I’m the shadow, the whisper, the ghost in the breeze.

I crafted her poems from fragments of soul,

Words dipped in starlight, to make her feel whole.

Yet she hands him her heart, though he holds it so careless,

While I stand here bleeding, devoted and prayerless.

I am the moon, she is chasing the sun,

Knowing he’ll burn her when daylight is done.

Still, I remain, a silent refrain,

Loving her deeply, enduring the pain.

Her laughter is symphony, but I’m the hush,

Her world spins for him - I’m dust in the rush.

I scream without sound, I ache without end,

A lover, a stranger, a heart she won’t mend.

If only she saw, if only she knew,

The sky that she worships is empty and blue.

While I, the eclipse, stand steady and true,

Loving her madly - though she never knew.

He never showed her those words. Maybe she wouldn’t understand. Maybe she would. But some things aren’t meant to be read - only felt.

But heartbreak, as cruel as it was, wasn’t the end.

So, he did the only thing he could, he walked away. He put down the memories, silenced the notifications, and let go. It wasn’t easy. It took months of pretending he was fine before he actually was. But one day, he woke up and realized he didn’t check to see if she was online. He didn’t care who she was talking to.

And in that moment, he knew, he was free.

Life wasn’t about waiting in the background, hoping someone would choose him. It was about living his own story, leveling up, and moving forward. And as he walked away from that chapter, he realized he hadn’t lost. He had won.

Because in the end, he saved himself.

“Some people come into our lives like a warm breeze, bringing comfort and light, but they are not meant to stay. And that’s okay, because some stories are beautiful even if they don’t last forever.”

If it's not meant to be yours, cry, beg, scream, it still won’t come. Maybe the hardest thing is also the right thing: letting go.

(In the end, he understood, spring was just a lie he told himself, a mask summer wore before leaving for good. It never stayed, no matter how much he begged it to. Now he doesn’t wait for healing, just for something to numb the ache. If not autumn to mourn with him, then winter to bury what’s left.)