The Second Love That Lingers

As I lay down to rest, I tried to erase every thought, every emotion from the day.
Silence filled the room. I calmed my mind—work, people, everything—until it was empty. Comforting. And then, without warning, his name arrived.

I opened my eyes and stared at the dark ceiling.
Even with my eyes open, I could see his face. I remembered his scent, his voice—if I reached out, I could almost feel his body again.

A body I once pretended was mine, even if only for a few stolen hours. But he was never truly mine.

He was my second love—the man who never gave himself fully to me, while I gave him everything. Years of chasing, surrendering, and losing myself for someone who only ever wanted lust.
And I gave him that, because a few hours with him felt better than not having him at all.

I knew I was breaking my own heart. So I stopped it. I ended the contact, as hard as it was. I haven’t seen him in years. I moved on. I dated other men—but none of them were him. None reached the part of me that still belonged to his memory.

I sat up and switched on the lamp. On my bedside table lay my notepad and the book I’d been reading. An idea came: do something I’d never done before. I would write to him—a letter he would never receive—just to release what still lived inside me.
I grabbed the notepad and pen. I paused. How do I start this? And then it just flowed, the words pouring out. With it, a sense of peace began to cloak me.

Hey you,

How are you keeping? How is life treating you? I’m guessing you’re married now, settled. I’m guessing I haven’t crossed your mind in a while. But tonight, you crossed mine. I thought I was over you, but clearly I’m not.

Maybe that explains why nothing after you worked. I told myself I chose to be alone—celibate—because I couldn’t face more heartbreak. The truth is, I chose it because I couldn’t have you.

I know my feelings were different to yours. I even dared to open up to you. But you didn’t love me. That’s why I had to let you go. You called when you needed someone, knowing how I felt, knowing I wouldn’t resist.

The worst part? If you knocked on my door tonight and begged me to be with you—no matter how much the past hurt—I’d probably open my arms. I hate that about me. I can’t blame you for all of it. I let you back in, over and over, until I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted you, but I would never be enough.

I hope you’re happy. You probably don’t even remember my name.

Maybe, in another life, you’d open up to me. Maybe we’d belong together. My heart still whispers that we should.

I miss you—and it hurts. Or maybe I miss the version of you I hoped you would be.

Forever in my heart and soul,
L x

I set the notepad and pen back on the bedside table and turned the light off. I lay down again, trying once more to forget everything. I felt lighter for having written it—yet he still lingered at the edge of my mind.
Maybe he’ll always be there. Maybe some part of me will always hope he’ll come back.
Or maybe I only ever missed the version I wished he could be.

© 2025 Louise C Kay. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.