added blog about getting a sos message from the one i still love

2026-03-25 15:55:37 +01:00
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 ---
 title: "Still Listed"
 description: "An unexpected moment that showed me how love can remain, even without access."
 pubDate: 2026-03-25
 tags: ["reflection", "personal", "love", "healing"]
 category: "reflection"
 featuredEssay: false
 draft: false
 ---
 *by LATTE*
 I noticed the call first.
 Just a missed call — nothing unusual.  
 But when I looked at the number, I saw the last three digits.
 And I knew.
 Immediately.
 Some things do not pass through thought first.  
 They register somewhere deeper,  
 like an old signal still recognized by the body  
 before the mind has time to name it.
 ---
 Then I opened my phone.
 > SOS! I need emergency help.  
 > My current location: [link]  
 > (Sent from my watch)
 A location.  
 His location.
 And for a moment — maybe two, maybe three seconds —  
 everything in me just… stopped.
 My heart skipped.  
 My body went cold.
 ---
 It was him.
 The person I used to be closest to.  
 The person I still, quietly, carry something for.
 Not in a way that reaches.  
 Not in a way that asks.
 But in the way some things remain present  
 even after they are no longer active in your life.
 ---
 I could have called.
 That thought came instantly.  
 Automatic. Familiar.
 But I didn’t.
 Not because I don’t care.
 But because I know what my place is now.
 Some forms of care are no longer meant to become action.
 ---
 There was one small detail that grounded me.
 At the end of the message, there was a single word:
 > fuck
 And somehow, that told me enough.
 That it was likely a mistake.  
 A misfire.  
 A false alarm rather than a real emergency.
 Not nothing.  
 But not a door I was meant to walk back through.
 ---
 So I chose something simple.
 I told him I didn’t recognize the number.  
 That he probably had the wrong contact.  
 That it might be good to update it.
 And then I added:
 > I do hope they’re okay.
 ---
 And that was the truth.
 Just not the whole truth.
 Because I *did* recognize it.
 Immediately.
 My body knew before I even opened the message.  
 Before I had time to think.  
 Before I could separate memory from reaction.
 I knew it was him.
 The one I still hope is okay.
 ---
 And I still hoped he was okay,  
 not as a role,  
 not as a responsibility,  
 but as something quieter than that.
 As love, maybe.
 Not the kind that asks for access.  
 Not the kind that tries to reconnect.
 Just the kind that remains.
 ---
 Because even now —  
 after months of distance —
 I still love him.
 Not loudly.  
 Not in a way that pulls me back.
 But in a way that stays with me.
 The love did not vanish.  
 Its permissions changed.
 ---
 There’s no anger in it.
 No resentment.  
 No need to rewrite what we were  
 into something smaller just to make ending easier.
 Just… a kind of warmth  
 that never fully left.
 I still hope he’s okay.  
 I still wish him the best.
 Genuinely.
 Not because I am waiting.  
 Not because I am holding a door open.
 But because loving someone deeply  
 can remain true  
 even after contact is gone.
 ---
 And at the same time,
 I hope I never see him again.
 ---
 Not out of bitterness.
 But because of a promise.
 ---
 During our last real call,  
 he didn’t know if he wanted me in his life anymore.
 Not as a partner.  
 Not even as a friend.
 There was hesitation.
 And in that hesitation,  
 I made the decision myself.
 I stepped away completely.
 Because if someone no longer knows  
 whether they want you near,  
 the kindest thing you can do  
 is stop making your presence another question.
 ---
 That was my choice.
 My boundary.
 My final act of love  
 toward him,  
 and toward myself.
 Not to keep reaching.  
 Not to remain available.  
 Not to leave anything half-open.
 Just to step back fully  
 and let silence do what it needed to do.
 ---
 My body did not understand any of that in the moment.
 It reacted anyway.
 Because even if someone is no longer in your life,  
 your system can still recognize them instantly.
 Some connections are not erased.  
 They are stored differently.
 Not deleted.  
 But archived.
 Still there.  
 Just no longer meant to be reopened.
 ---
 So I stepped away.
 Got into the shower.  
 Let the warmth bring me back into myself again.
 Slowly, everything settled.
 My breathing eased.  
 My body returned.  
 The moment passed.
 ---
 That’s the strange part of healing.
 You can have distance.  
 You can have clarity.  
 You can have peace.
 And still — something small, unexpected —  
 can reach into deeper layers.
 A place where memory lives in the body.  
 A place that reacts before meaning catches up.
 ---
 But this time, it didn’t take me with it.
 I didn’t call.  
 I didn’t step back in.  
 I didn’t confuse love with access.
 I cared —  
 and I stayed where I am.
 ---
 And tonight,  
 I’ll probably just watch something simple.
 Let the day end quietly.  
 Let my body settle again.
 ---
 Because some things do not need to be fixed.
 Some things  
 are simply meant to be carried.
 Softly.  
 At a distance.  
 With care.
 Without losing yourself.