I think love leaves when it has to. It rushes out with the stale air.

I think love leaves when it has to. It rushes out with the stale air when you open the window in an overheated room. It fades when you wipe the fingerprints off the counter and change the sheets.

It slowly vanishes when the last letter has been written, when the last text has been sent. I guess there comes a time when it doesn’t work out anymore, for whatever reason, but I force myself to believe that it’s supposed to happen that way. That when it ends, it was fated to.

I hope you left because you were meant to.

That love walked out the door before you did, and that without it, you no longer saw a point in staying. That would make it easier to understand. Easier to justify. It doesn’t change anything to believe that it was neither your fault, nor mine, but it helps a little bit. So when love wants to leave, you have to hold the door open for it and bid it goodbye. And you have to let it go.

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