She Will Know Nothing

She will know nothing.
Not of what she took.
Not of what she left behind.
And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

What truly devastated me, though,
was realizing she’ll never know how much it cost me to remain standing.

She’ll never know about the tears I held back.

The times I swallowed my sorrow so no one would see me collapse.

The days the world kept turning while I wandered the city like a ghost — 
consumed by sadness, crushed by the weight of reality in every place that saw me arrive.

She’ll never know the tremor in my blood the moment she said goodbye.
Nor the invisible wound that never closed, because it was never tended,
barely covered by the remnants of who I used to be.

She’ll never know that my silence wasn’t indifference — 
it was the only way not to destroy what was left.

She won’t know about the sleepless nights when my soul was in pieces,
or the times I screamed her name inside myself, drowning in agony,
while outside, the orderly world marched on — 
a daily insult to everything we once lived.

And she won’t know, because she never cared to ask.

Because she didn’t just leave my life — 
she left the emotional space from which she might have seen me with compassion.

Because one damned day,
she chose not to look back.

The story she wrote with me was, for her, just another page — 
a margin note, maybe.
For me, it was the whole book.

And yes, I could tell her all of this.

I could try to explain the scale of the damage,
the internal collapse,
the rubble her departure left behind.

But it’s too late for that to matter.
It no longer makes sense.

She left that space where justice was still possible.
She no longer listens from there.

And that’s the true emotional injustice — 
that the one who hurt you can’t begin to grasp how deeply they broke you.
That they keep going with their life
while you’re still collecting pieces of yourself from the ruins.

What’s immeasurably sad
is that her memory holds not even the shadow of the pain she planted in my pulse.

And still, I go on breathing.
With a heart full of wreckage, yes — 
but with a clean conscience.

Because I didn’t betray the story.
I didn’t erase what we were.
I didn’t use forgetting as a shortcut to rebuild myself.

She will know nothing.

But I will know everything.

And that — as painful as it is — 
belongs to me until death.

This piece was originally published in Spanish. You can read the original version here.