The love that has no name!

  

There is a kind of grief I was never warned about.

Not the kind that comes with funerals or signatures or lawyers.

Not the kind that draws flowers and casseroles or whispered condolences.

No—this one arrives cloaked in secrecy, in shame, in silence.

It’s the grief of loving someone you were never allowed to name out loud.

I have loved in the shadows. Not because I’m proud of it—but because I’m human.

And I believed, for a moment, in something that felt more like coming alive than anything had in a long time.

It was not planned.

It was not chased.

It simply happened—like thunder cracking across a blue sky.

We talked. We laughed.

We shared the kind of connection that hums beneath the skin.

It wasn’t just lust. It was longing. Recognition.

That maddening sense that you’ve met someone you already know, in some soul-deep way.

But he was not mine to keep.

And now I carry the ache like a secret bruise.

No one asks. No one sees.

I don’t get to mourn him publicly. I don’t get to say, “This broke me.”

I just nod and smile and pretend I’m fine, while inside, something still burns.

The strange cruelty is this: it hurts more than my divorce.

Because that pain was shared.

This one? I wear it alone.

Someone told me to walk away. She was right.

But right doesn’t always come easily.

And no one warns you that the heart doesn’t follow logic—it follows memory, scent, tone, the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall.

But I’m choosing differently now.

Not because I stopped feeling—

But because I started healing.

There is power in walking away, even if you limp.

There is wisdom in silence, even if it shakes you.

And there is beauty in the truth, even if you’re the only one who knows it.

So I’ll write it down, here, where the light is gentle and the judgment is absent.

Because sometimes, the only way to let go is to give the ache a voice.

This is mine.

And maybe that’s what this whole journey is—me, untying myself from old anchors.

Hitching my heart to a caravan and letting the road teach me how to feel free again.

Not just in body, but in spirit. In truth. In love. Real love.

And next time—it will have my name written all over it.

Did something here speak to you?

Leave a comment if you feel moved, or simply sit with me in quiet.

If you’d like to walk this road with me, follow Nomadic Grandmother for new stories.

— x Elsabe