A Letter to the One Who Got Away

There are moments in life when we make decisions that change everything. Sometimes, we know immediately that we've made a mistake. Other times, the realization creeps in slowly, settling like a weight on the chest, making it harder to breathe. And then, there are those decisions we never thought we'd regret until it's too late. I don’t know which category this falls into—maybe all of them. But what I do know, with absolute certainty, is that I miss you.

I miss you in ways I never expected. It’s not just the big things, like the sound of your laughter or the warmth of your embrace. It’s the little things—the way you’d trace circles on my palm absentmindedly, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved. It’s the moments that seemed insignificant at the time but now haunt me like shadows I can’t outrun.

I keep telling myself that time heals all wounds, but the ache of your absence only deepens. They say that grief is love with nowhere to go, and if that’s true, then I must be drowning in an ocean of love that no longer has a shore. I find myself reaching for my phone, my fingers hovering over your name, debating whether to send a message I know you may never answer. I tell myself that I should let go, that moving on is the right thing to do. But how do you move on from someone who still owns pieces of you?

I regret the things I didn’t say, the words I left unspoken because I thought I had more time. I regret the things I did say, the sharp words spoken in anger that I can’t take back. If I could go back, I would choose my battles differently. I would hold you closer instead of pushing you away. I would listen more, love more, appreciate more. I would do everything I failed to do when I had the chance.

The world keeps moving, and yet, I feel stuck in a moment that has already passed. People tell me to meet someone new, to open my heart again. But how do you let someone else in when you’re still filled with the echoes of someone who left? I try to fill the emptiness with distractions—work, friends, anything to keep my mind occupied. But no matter what I do, there’s always a moment, in the quiet of the night, when your memory comes rushing back like a tidal wave, pulling me under.

I wonder if you miss me too. Do you ever hear a song and think of me? Do you ever drive past the places we used to go and feel a pang of nostalgia? Do you ever wish we could have one more conversation, one more chance to set things right? Or have you moved on, leaving me as nothing more than a chapter in your past, a story you no longer wish to reread?

I don’t expect a response. Maybe you won’t even see this. Maybe it’s better that way. But I needed to say it. I needed to put these feelings into words because carrying them alone has become too heavy. Maybe writing this is my way of letting go, or maybe it’s just another way to hold on. I don’t know anymore.

What I do know is that I still miss you. I miss you in the mornings when I wake up and reach for you, only to find an empty space. I miss you in the afternoons when something funny happens and I instinctively think of telling you. I miss you in the evenings when the loneliness is at its worst, when the silence screams louder than any words ever could.

I still miss you, and I think a part of me always will. And maybe that’s the price of love—the risk of loss, the pain of absence, the knowledge that once you give your heart away, you may never fully get it back. But if loving you means carrying this ache, then I suppose I will bear it, because loving you was worth it. Even if I have to do it from a distance, even if I have to do it alone.

I still miss you. I always will.

You can read Part 1 here: I Still Miss You