You ever love so deeply once that when it ended, the silence lasted longer than the goodbye? I did. And maybe you did too.
Her name was Lolita. She was my beginning, my madness, my melody. With her, the world felt poetic. Every raindrop, every breath, was part of our song. When she left, the music didn’t stop; it just played from a distance I could no longer reach.
For a long time, I confused memory with presence. I talked to the wind as if she’d answer. I rode through sunsets that felt like reruns of a life I’d already lived. Love, I thought, was a single act once performed, never repeated.
Then came the quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ache; it listens. And in that stillness, she appeared.
Not to replace. Not to rescue. Just to remind me that hearts don’t die; they hibernate. Her laughter didn’t echo Lolita’s; it rewrote the silence she left behind. Her eyes didn’t search for yesterday; they made today enough.
She didn’t walk into my story like a storm. She arrived like dawn gentle, unassuming, inevitable. She didn’t try to heal what was broken. She simply touched it until it bloomed again.
Maybe this is how love returns not as a repetition, but as renewal. Not louder, not grander just real, in a quieter way.
And so here I am again, writing about love. Not because it’s the same story but because it still matters. Because some endings are just rehearsals for new beginnings.
Her name is Eva
With Love, Again
G S Prasanth Kumar
