If there is one last true thing

Why come so close only to stay where I cannot reach you?
Distance made the rest of it possible. Silence did the rest. Rooms stay empty long enough and other people move in. They rearrange what you already knew about me until their version is louder than mine.
I still do not understand how that happened. Hands that were never in the room took pieces of me and built a shadow with my name on it.
You knew me before the ink dried. Before a scar could be used as evidence. Before a bad night could be offered as a whole person. You knew the voice. Then the noise covered it.
I cannot look at you the way they need me to. I still see the person who could make me smile when nothing in my life had earned it. I will not turn you into a villain because loving you became expensive.
I hurt you. Pain pulled things out of me I would take back if I could. None of that made what I felt a performance. There were times I needed you and it felt like you chose everything else. That is the part that still sits wrong. Not the ending. The lack of a sentence from you.
I am not asking to put it back together. I am asking to sit across from you once, with no one else in the room and no years of quiet speaking for us.
If you stopped, say you stopped. If there is nothing left, say that. If I built the wrong story in the gap, say that too. I can live with a wound that has a name. I cannot keep guessing in the dark and calling the cuts answers.
If you do not answer, I will treat the silence as the answer and stop looking for you inside it.
I needed you to know this first. When I look for you now, I still find the person who made something in me wake when the rest of my life had gone still. Maybe that is only memory. Maybe that version already left.
If there is one last true thing, I want it from you.