She wasn't mourning him anymore; she was mourning the energy it took to keep his memory alive.
Elena sat in the same armchair where they had shared a thousand quiet mornings, but the silence now was heavy, like wet wool. She played the melody of "Abia aștept să nu te mai iubesc" on a loop, the lyrics carving out the hollow space in her chest. She wasn't mourning him anymore; she was mourning
For months, her love had been a ghost—a haunting presence that refused to leave the room even though the person who inspired it was long gone. Loving him had become a reflex, a phantom limb that throbbed whenever she saw a specific shade of blue or smelled cedarwood. She wasn't mourning him anymore