I became a version of myself shaped to echo her soul. Every word, every glance, every quiet part of me shifted to meet her where she was. I thought that was what love was — becoming soft where she was fragile, steady where she was afraid, loud where she was quiet. I thought if I molded myself close enough to her shape, she would see me. But when she left, perhaps I left me too. All that remained was the echo, hollow and unfinished, wandering through my days in my place. People still saw my face, still heard my voice, but it wasn’t me anymore. It was a stranger, carrying my memories like borrowed clothes. It is a strange kind of grief, mourning yourself. You look into mirrors and do not recognize the person looking back. You laugh when you are supposed to, speak when you are spoken to, go through the motions of being alive — and yet something essential is gone. And maybe that is the cost of loving someone too much. You pour yourself so completely into them that when they go, there is nothing left to hold you together. Just a shape, just a shadow, just a stranger wearing your face.