January 2024 was the last time we spoke, and it felt like the universe whispering the final lines of a story I wasn’t ready to close.
I was drained—physically, mentally, emotionally. After almost 400 km on the road with no sleep, I rang her phone with nothing but the weight of everything unsaid. Despite her busy schedule, she was gracious enough to answer my call, though I sensed it wasn’t out of warmth—but ultimate closure.
When I heard her voice, it was like stepping into a familiar storm, one I had already been swept away by too many times. I knew this was it—the last time our worlds would ever collide. She sounded tired, not just from work but from everything that had led us to this point. And though she had already warned me that she had nothing left to say, she still agreed to listen.
So I spoke. I poured out everything that had been choking me for months, knowing full well that words wouldn’t save what was already lost.
But before I get into that last conversation—the moment where everything I feared became real—let me take you back to where it all truly began.
The Last Goodbye
In January 2023, at a coffee shop we often visited, we said our final physical goodbye. After five months of what felt like the calm before the storm—the most stable, peaceful stretch of our relationship—the moment I had dreaded finally arrived. She had to leave the country, to chase a future that had no room for me.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t a betrayal. It was something we had both known would happen. It was inevitable. A reality I had agreed to long before, back when I thought I was strong enough to handle it. But as she stood there, ready to walk away, every ounce of that strength crumbled.
I had already decided that she was the woman I wanted to spend my life with. And yet, in the cruelest twist of fate, that same love—the love I had taken for granted for so long—was now the reason I was about to lose her.
I wanted to fight. I wanted to throw away every agreement, every logical reasoning, and just beg her to stay. I wanted to tell her that her dreams didn’t have to take her away from me, that we could build something here—something worth staying for. That I’d take on her burdens, that I’d work myself to the bone just to keep her close.
But I knew the truth.
I couldn’t compete with what was waiting for her. The life she had spent years working for, the opportunities that would finally give her everything she deserved—I was nothing against all of that. I was just a man in love, armed with nothing but desperate words and an empty promise to fight a battle I had already lost.
So, I did the only thing I could. I swallowed the lump in my throat, took her hand, kissed her for the last time, and looked into her eyes as I whispered the final “I love you” I would ever say in person.
She didn’t cry. She never did. She had always been the stronger one between us. But I saw it. The weight in her eyes. The silent acknowledgment of everything we had been, and everything we would never be again.
And me? I broke. I shattered right in front of her. I wept like a man being stripped of his soul. Because in that moment, I knew—I wasn’t just losing the woman I loved.
I was losing the only version of myself that had ever felt whole.
I rode my motorcycle home, but I wasn’t sure if I’d ever really make it back. Not to who I used to be. Not to the life I thought I had.
Somewhere on that endless road, through every stopover where I had to wipe my eyes just to see, something inside me stayed behind.
And she took it with her.
The Rock Bottom That Followed
After she left in early 2023, I spiraled into the worst state of alcoholism I had ever known. My health, especially my mental state, collapsed. I hit rock bottom. She endured so much of my mental decline, carrying the weight of my self-destruction until she finally broke.
She ended our long-distance relationship.
At first, I acted as if I was okay with it. I even agreed, pretending I understood. But after a few weeks, reality hit me—we were really done. This wasn’t just another fight. There was no “fixing it later.” No grand comeback.
That’s when things got even worse.
My alcoholism was at its peak, and every bit of weakness I had tried to hide was laid bare. I had no discipline, no self-control, no dignity left. And the worst part? She saw all of it. She saw me drowning, but she had already given me a thousand lifelines before. This time, she let go.
And that’s when the real desperation began.
I tried to manipulate her. I played mind games, twisted words, and clung to any ounce of hope I could fabricate. And when none of that worked, I did the worst thing imaginable—I threatened her.
Not because I ever wanted to hurt her, but because I wanted her to feel what I was feeling. I wanted her to see the damage, to see the wreckage she had left behind, as if that would make her stay. But she didn’t. She finally chose herself.
All because I couldn't accept that she was tired. That she just wanted peace.
And so, in January 2024, when I was at my lowest—after months of begging, after every attempt to pull her back into my misery—she finally agreed to hear me out one last time.
I still remember everything about that call.
I was exhausted. I had just come from an almost 400 km motorcycle ride, still running on no sleep. My body was breaking, but it was nothing compared to the weight in my chest.
She answered.
Her voice was calm, but distant. She sounded drained, the way a person does when they’ve been carrying something too heavy for too long.
I started with an apology—one she had probably heard a hundred times before. I admitted everything. That I was an alcoholic. That I was out of control. That I had been selfish, manipulative, and blind to her needs. That I had made her life a living hell instead of being the man she deserved.
She listened.
For the first time in a long time, she really listened.
And I let everything out. I told her I was going to change. That I was going to fight my demons, rebuild myself, and become someone worthy of her love again.
Then I asked her the question I was afraid to hear the answer to.
“Do you still have feelings for me?”
She sighed. And after a long pause, she said it.
“No. Wala na.”
That was it. No sugarcoating, no hesitation. Just the plain, brutal truth.
And at that moment, my world shattered.
I had been holding onto the idea that somehow, deep down, she still felt something. That maybe, just maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could reignite whatever was left. But she had already closed the book. I was the only one still flipping through the pages, searching for an ending that didn’t exist.
She said she had nothing more to say.
So I said my last words to her. A goodbye that I knew, this time, was final.
And then, just like that, she was gone.
The Cycle of Relapse & Redemption
After that final conversation, I swore to myself—I would change. This time, for real.
At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
But the truth was, I had no idea how to start. I was still the same wreck, except now, I had nothing left to hold onto. The very person I was trying to change for had already walked away. And so, I did what I always did when things got unbearable—I numbed the pain.
I told myself I could handle it. That I was strong enough to fix myself. That I didn’t need help. But the cycle was relentless. I'd manage a few days of sobriety, convince myself that I was getting better, and then fall back into the same pit at the slightest trigger. Streak, relapse, streak, relapse. Every time I clawed my way out, I’d slip back down, deeper than before.
Then came March 2024.
The month I finally stopped fighting.
Alcohol had sunk too deep into my system. The battle was over. I had lost. So I gave in.
I let go of my goal. I had no support system, no real motivation left—so why the hell was I still trying? The first two weeks of March were the ugliest, most destructive drinking sessions I had ever put myself through. I didn’t need a reason. I didn’t need company. I drank in the morning. I drank before sleeping. I drank just because I was awake.
I lost my job. My life was in absolute ruins.
And then came the worst relapse of all.
It was late at night. The alcohol had burned through whatever self-restraint I had left. My mind, already drowning in self-loathing, convinced me of one last, desperate move.
I grabbed my phone.
I typed out every hateful, violent thought my broken heart had kept bottled up. Every resentment, every blame, every ounce of self-pity disguised as anger. And then, I hit send.
I wanted her to feel my suffering. To see the wreckage she left behind.
But she didn’t even give me the satisfaction of a reaction.
She blocked me. On everything.
She erased me from her world for good.
And that’s when it hit me—the final, devastating realization.
It wasn’t the drinking. It wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t even the breakup.
It was me.
I was the problem.
It took losing the last shred of respect she had for me to finally see it. I wasn’t some tragic hero in a sad love story. I was pathetic. A weak, entitled mess who thought that just because I was hurting, I had the right to drag her down with me.
And for the first time, I didn't feel anger.
I felt disgust.
Not at her. Not at the situation.
At myself.
And that was the moment something shifted.
For the first time, I wasn't drinking to forget. I was drinking because I had nothing left to believe in—not even myself.
And when you hit that level of rock bottom, there are only two ways out.
You either stay there. Or you claw your way up.
I chose to fight.
But it wasn’t some dramatic, overnight transformation. There was no grand redemption arc, no sudden burst of motivation that made me throw away the bottle and start over.
It was slow. It was painful. It was dragging myself through hell, one agonizing step at a time.
I didn’t know where it would lead.
But I knew I couldn’t stay here.
The Final Realization
Now, in 2025, after staying consistent with my alcohol-cessation goal since March 2024, I found myself revisiting our last conversation. And with that, I toyed with the idea of reconnecting with her.
Because why not?
After all, I had done exactly what I said I would. I had changed. I was alcohol-free, mentally stable, and even physically stronger. The wreckage I once was? Gone. Replaced by a version of myself I could actually be proud of.
Wasn’t that the whole point?
Didn’t I promise her that one day, I’d come back as a different man?
And if that day was here… didn’t I at least owe it to myself to let her know?
So, I wrote a long letter.
I poured everything into it—every milestone, every hard-fought victory, every ounce of self-discipline that got me here. How I had let go of my pride, my ego, and my selfish ways. How I now understood exactly what went wrong, how I could finally say with certainty: I am not the same man you walked away from.
It was my testament. My proof.
And if I was being completely honest?
It was my plea.
For another chance.
For days, I obsessed over it. I reread the words. I edited, reworded, second-guessed. It was perfect. It had to be. Because if there was even a slight chance she still had something left for me, this—this letter—was the key.
Or so I thought.
Then, the moment of truth.
I hovered over the send button. And I stopped.
I hesitated.
Then I hesitated again.
And then the questions hit me.
What do I really want?
Is this truly about love, or do I just want to be validated?
Have I really changed… or am I just playing a more refined version of my old self—someone who still thinks he can control the outcome?
And then, the hardest question of all—
Who the fuck am I to her anymore?
I had been so busy constructing the perfect version of her in my head, keeping alive the goddess-like figure I had worshipped for years. She had even started appearing in my dreams.
But in reality? She had moved on. She had built the life she always dreamed of, and she was still rising.
Meanwhile, just because I had managed to put my life together, I was suddenly claiming the right to step back into hers?
Was I justified in sending this letter?
Would it be a wasted chance if I didn’t?
Or was this just another desperate attempt to rewrite the past?
I stared at the screen.
The cursor blinked.
The answer was right there, wasn’t it?
And yet, I still wasn’t sure.
The Final Test
One day, on my day off, I hopped on my motorcycle with no clear destination. The weight of my own thoughts had been paralyzing me for weeks, and I needed to do something—anything—to break free from this cycle.
So I let my instincts take control.
I let the wheels carry me to the places we once called ours.
The first stop shattered me.
I parked outside, staring at the entrance like it was some haunted relic from my past. A year ago, I sat at that farthest corner table, drowning in heartbreak, burying my face in my hands so no one would see the mess I had become. I had lost her. That was where it hit me the hardest.
Now, I was back.
I forced myself inside, ordered the same coffee, and sat at the exact same spot. I thought I had built enough armor, convinced myself that I was unbreakable now.
I was wrong.
The moment I looked at that empty chair across from me, it all came flooding in.
The way she stirred her drink absentmindedly. The way she rested her chin on her palm, half-listening to my ramblings. The way her presence alone made the whole world feel still.
She wasn’t here anymore.
And yet, she was everywhere.
I clenched my fists under the table. My jaw tightened. I fought it—I really tried. But the tears came anyway.
I still love her.
All this time, I thought I had rebuilt myself. That I had turned my pain into fuel, sharpened myself into someone who could look back without breaking.
But here I was. Still breaking.
Still her fool.
I needed one last test.
So I made one final stop—her family’s house.
Her mom greeted me like nothing had changed, like I was still welcome. And in her eyes, I saw something I didn’t expect. Not judgment. Not resentment. But pride.
She looked at me—not as the wreck I once was—but as the man I had become.
"The changes you've made," she said, smiling, "I'm so proud of you."
A mix of emotions hit me. Gratitude. Sadness. A desperate need for validation.
And then, she said it.
"You should message her. Just check in. See how she’s doing."
The invitation was there. An open door.
This was it. The moment I had been waiting for. The chance to prove to her that I had truly changed.
I felt my heart race. My hands trembled slightly.
I could do it.
I should do it.
And yet—
I took a deep breath and forced a smile.
"It's all good now. I don't want to disrupt the good things happening in her life."
And just like that, I let go.
Or at least, I told myself I did.
I rode away from her house that day with a strange mix of emotions—pride, regret, relief, and a sadness so deep it settled into my bones.
I had the opportunity. I had the right to reach out.
So why did it feel like walking away was the real victory?
Why did it feel like—after everything—I had finally passed the test?
Or had I just wasted my last chance?
I don’t know.
I still don’t know.
Moving Forward
I’ve made up my mind.
She deserves her peace.
And I deserve mine.
I could spend a lifetime wondering what could’ve been if only I had been stronger when it mattered most. If only I hadn’t drowned myself in vices. If only I had fought for us the way I should have—when I still had the chance.
But I can’t rewrite the past.
What I can do is let her go, wish her well—genuinely—and keep rebuilding myself, not for her, not for anyone else, but for me.
The letter? It remains unsent. Not because I lack the courage to send it, but because I no longer need to. It will stay with me—not as a burden, but as a testament to how far I’ve come. A symbol of my vulnerability. My failures. My redemption.
It reminds me that if I could overcome the worst version of myself, then I can push even further. That this is only the beginning.
One year of change does not erase decades of mistakes. I still have my lapses, my triggers, my moments of weakness. But whatever good comes from this new life, it’s mine to reap. And nothing feels better than knowing I am finally free from my own worst enemy—myself.
I love her. Maybe I always will. But love isn’t about possession. It isn’t about winning.
It’s about gratitude.
For the time she gave me. For the lessons I had to learn the hard way.
For the happiness she allowed me to experience, even if it wasn’t meant to last.
And if this is the price of true love—wishing the best for the one who left, not to control them, not to drag them back, but to genuinely want them to be happy—then I will pay it in full.
So, I walk away.
Not because I’m giving up, but because I no longer need to hold on.
She was never an opponent to defeat, nor a prize to reclaim. She was a chapter—a beautiful, painful, unforgettable one. But the story moves forward, and so do I.
