Time kept moving, neither too fast nor too slow. Everything in my life seemed to have settled into a more stable rhythm. I stayed beside that person—a person who wasn't bad, in fact, was very good. He cared for me, took care of me, treated me gently in a way that most people would consider enough to build a peaceful relationship, one without turbulence, without pressure.
But within those things that seemed "enough," I began to realize something I didn't want to face. Every gesture, every small action from him somehow made me think of him—not because this person wasn't good, but because what he did… felt too familiar.
From the beginning, the reason I agreed to get to know him was because of those similarities. The way he spoke, the way he cared, the way he looked after me—everything carried something that reminded me of him. At that time, I thought it would make things easier. I thought that if he was similar, I would gradually get used to it, gradually accept it, gradually move on from the past.
But I was wrong.
Those familiar things didn't help me forget. They made me remember even more clearly.
Every time he did something for me, every time he cared for me, I would remember moments from before—remember how he used to do those same things. Not identical, but enough for me to notice the difference. Not better or worse… just different.
Sometimes he would reach out and gently fix my hair. Such a normal gesture. But in my mind, an image would immediately appear—him doing the same thing, softly, naturally, without needing to say anything. And in that moment, I was no longer in the present. I was pulled back into a memory.
Sometimes he would buy food for me and bring it to me. And I would remember the times he traveled a long distance just to bring me something I liked. No reason, no special occasion—just because he wanted to.
That kind of care… this person could also give, even very well. But the feeling inside me was not the same. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate it. It was that I couldn't stop myself from comparing. I couldn't stop myself from remembering.
I knew I shouldn't be like that. I knew it wasn't fair to the person beside me. But emotions aren't something you can control with logic. The more I tried not to think, the more I thought about it.
There were times I asked myself what I really wanted. I knew the answer was somewhere inside me—clear, real—but I didn't dare to look at it directly, didn't dare to name it, didn't dare to accept it.
When I looked at him, I didn't see anything wrong. I didn't see anything lacking. But I also didn't feel that it was enough. And that made me feel guilty—not toward him, but toward the person beside me. Because I knew that my heart wasn't fully there.
That guilt slowly changed me. I began to text him less, reply less. Not because he had done anything wrong, but because I thought it was the best way—for him, for that person, and for myself. I thought that if I created distance, everything would gradually settle, feelings would fade, things would return to where they belonged.
But reality wasn't that simple.
The less I contacted him, the more I felt that absence. Not the absence of a person, but the absence of a feeling—a way of being, something I hadn't realized the value of until it was no longer close.
There were nights I lay there, staring at my phone, seeing his messages but not replying right away. Not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't know how to respond. I didn't know how much distance was enough. I didn't know if what I was doing was right or wrong.
I told myself I was doing the right thing, that I was trying to make everything clearer, trying not to hurt anyone. But deep down, I knew I was just avoiding—avoiding facing my own feelings, avoiding making a choice I wasn't brave enough to make.
And in all of this, the thing that trapped me the most… was those familiar gestures. The smallest, most ordinary things—yet carrying memories that I could never replace.
Message of Chapter 44
When we choose someone because they resemble another, we are not starting something new—we are only extending a memory that has never truly ended.