Letting Go of What We Couldn't Hold On To

In the heart of Paris, on a chilly evening, I found myself standing on the cobblestones of Rue de Rivoli. The scent of freshly baked baguettes wafted through the air, mixing with the subtle notes of the Seine. The city was alive with muted chatter and the sporadic laughter of couples strolling by, their hands tightly interlaced. Under the dim glow of the street lamps, I clutched an old, tattered letter, its contents etched into my soul.

It was her letter, the last one she had written to me. Margot, my lifelong friend, my confidante, my love. We were but two souls, lost in the labyrinth of life, holding on to the promise of forever. Yet, life, the cruel puppeteer it is, had other plans. Margot was diagnosed with a condition that, day by day, chipped away at her memories. By the time she disappeared from my life, she had already forgotten who I was.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and I found myself entrapped in a state of perpetual mourning. I frequented our old haunts – the tiny café near Sacré-Cœur, the hidden bookstore in Marais, the stone bench by the Seine, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, of us. But all I found was an echo of our laughter, a ghost of our past.

The crumpled letter in my hand was a relic of our lost love. It was a mirror that reflected a time of joy and innocence, but also a stark reminder of what I had lost. I toyed with the idea of throwing it into the Seine, of letting the river carry away the pain. But could I truly let go of what was the last tangible piece of her?

As the moon bathed the city in a soft glow, I took one last look at the letter, our shared history in ink, and released it into the night. The pain was still there, throbbing like an open wound, but there was a strange sense of liberation, a feeling that I was finally ready to let go of what I couldn't hold on to.

Dear reader, what would you have done? Would you have held on to the pain, or let it go?