There’s a quiet ache in this line, one that feels all too familiar. It’s not about sudden heartbreak or dramatic loss, but the slow fade… when joy gives way to something colder, when memories turn from warm to sharp, and when the things we once loved begin to sting. Hemingway wrote this in his early 20s, just after the war, already carrying more weight than most do in a lifetime. He understood how time doesn’t always heal, it often reshapes. What was once beautiful can become bittersweet, not be