A Letter to Mr. Spaceman
April 20, 2026
Dear Mr. Spaceman,
my most favorite human being on earth.
I used to think time would do something dramatic. To erase you, to soften you, to make you feel like a distant version of a life I barely remember. But instead, it did something quieter. It kept you in the background of everything. Like a constant hum I learned how to live with.
And maybe that's the strangest part.
Because I’m not the same person you knew. Not even close. Life kept moving, and I had to move with it. I’ve grown into someone a little steadier, a little sharper, a little more aware of what I can and cannot accept. And somehow, without you being here, it still feels like you had a hand in that.
Like you set something in me I didn’t even notice forming at the time. Like I still talk to you about my day when I drive, even if it means I’m talking to the road.
You didn’t just show me love. You showed me how I should be loved. And now, two years later, I catch myself measuring everything against that quiet knowing. Not in a way that traps me, but in a way that guides me.
Still— there are moments. Small ones. Honest ones.
Sometimes I still look back at the days when your contact would be the first name I’d call over something as small as a mosquito bite, or the nights when your hand was the first thing I’d reach for when I couldn’t sleep and needed comfort.
I remember how you made everything feel easier. How even my worst breakdowns didn’t feel so heavy with you there. Like facing a new life direction wasn’t something to be scared of. Like living alone didn’t actually mean I was alone in this universe. Because somewhere, in my own way of understanding it, you were still there, walking beside me—
just from another planet.
And maybe that’s why you stayed with me in the way you did. Because you didn’t just hold me in the easy moments. You were there when my world felt like it was collapsing in slow motion. When getting out of bed felt like an achievement. When I didn’t know how to carry everything I was going through.
You never asked me to be okay before I was ready. You just stayed. You just listened. You just smiled. But you became my brain for a long time. You helped me start my days, even when all I could manage was something small. And somehow, you made me believe that surviving it was enough. That’s when I understood what love was supposed to feel like.
And sometimes, in the quiet, a thought still slips through before I can stop it:
How am I supposed to find better, when I already found the best?How do I find something more or above, when I've already known that kind of love?
But I don’t hold onto that the way I used to. It’s softer now. Less desperate. More like a truth I’ve learned to sit with, instead of fight. Because maybe “the best” wasn’t meant to stay. Maybe it was meant to shape. You didn’t stay, but you built something in me that did. A quiet refusal to settle. A kind of love I now know exists because I felt it with you.
Not really.
This is me accepting that we were never meant to last, but you were never meant to be meaningless either. This is me acknowledging that some people don’t leave you, they just change form. From a person you had, to a love you carry. And maybe that’s what you are now.
Not mine, not anymore.
But still— somehow, a part of who I am becoming.
your andwa,
in a way that no longer needs to be returned,
on our 2nd heartbreak anniversary.
April 20, 2026.
0 comments