The Art of Not Pronouncing His Name.

The Art of Not Pronouncing His Name.

My mother could never pronounce your name,

so I chose to let you go—

with a heavy heart

and tears I never showed completely.

Those years of friendship still haunt me,

and the year I fell for you

reminds me of how foolish I was

to believe you felt the same.

I left you behind,

not because I stopped caring,

but because I began to value

my time, my peace, and my self-respect.

I was silly to imagine love where there was none,

and destiny, in its own quiet way,

proved me wrong.

Things never moved the way I hoped,

and then time itself whispered—

“Stop. Don’t rush. Let me do my part.”

And maybe, in the end,

your name was never meant

to be spoken in my home

or carried in my future.

I wish my mom would never ask me again

what happened to that “friend”

I once called mine—

for a reason only my heart knew.

Letting you go was my choice,

not yours.

I made that choice

because I never felt the same warmth

from your side.

You never wished me on my birthdays,

but strangely, it never hurt me.

Maybe because I never liked celebrating

the day I was born—

it has always felt like

my quiet nightmare.

And somewhere between your silence

and my acceptance,

I realised—

some endings don’t need closure,

they just need courage.

Setting you free

was also setting myself free.

I was tired of explaining

that I liked you—

while you kept turning it

into a joke.

You knew how I felt,

and still chose not to feel the same.

Maybe I’ll never understand why,

and maybe somewhere,

it wasn’t just your fault—

maybe I had my share in it too.

But what hurts the most is this—

six years…

and still,

you couldn’t value

what we had.