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She loved him enough
to let him go —
not because she stopped loving,
but because she finally understood
that some hearts aren’t meant to be held,
only remembered.
And he —
he stayed,
not in the room, not in her life,
but in every quiet corner of her memory —
brave in silence,
loud in absence.
Around them,
the world still laughed, loved, and fought —
anklets chimed, watches gleamed,
the night sang of chaos that somehow felt like home.
But for them —
for her and him —
Paris stood still.
Some stories end with a kiss.
Theirs ended with peace.
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