I Loved Once, and That Was Enough A letter from a widow’s heart—where love, grief, and silence hold hands in the dark.

I was supposed to go on a date tonight.

He smiled like he was holding something fragile—

and it was his heart.

He said,

“I’m afraid.”

And I answered,

“So am I.”

We are mirrors—

two people who have only ever loved once,

and never fully returned from it.

He said,

“I’ve only loved once.”

And the room grew still.

Because I have too.

When he died,

he didn’t just take his body with him—

he took a part of me I never got back.

There are places in me no one touches now,

rooms with the lights off,

furniture still dusted,

but untouched.

He didn’t say I was too much.

He just couldn’t stay.

And I didn’t beg him to.

Because I’ve learned—

you can’t make someone brave

just because you are.

I still showed up.

With my trembling heart.

With my three children.

With a love I stitched together

out of grief and grit.

My friend tells me,

“Someone is praying for you.”

“You are someone’s blessing.”

And maybe… maybe that’s true.

But tonight,

I feel like a prayer no one dares finish.

A sentence left unread.

A promise that never made it past the lips.

Tonight I feel like a ghost

in skin that remembers

what love used to feel like.

There’s no romance in this ache.

No poetry in watching yourself hope

for someone who can’t hold it.

If this is what it means to love again—

to open and bleed—

then maybe once

was enough.

Maybe I’m meant to be widowed.

To be wild and untouchable.

To raise my children

in a house where grief hangs like curtains,

and strength tucks them in at night.

So tonight,

I blow out the candle.

I fold my heart like worn linen.

And I whisper to the dark:

“If no one stays,

let me stay with myself.”

Because that—

that I can trust.

🕯️ Written in the hush between heartbeats.

—Tiki