If I Had One More Minute

Some mornings taste bitter.

Not because of the coffee. Not even because of the silence.

But because of you.

The ghost of you.

The absence of you.

The too-much-of-you that still lives inside my chest.

The truth is, we never got closure. We never had that perfectly timed cinematic goodbye where you say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” and I nod with tears in my eyes but dignity in my spine.

No.

We just fell apart like a badly built bridge. Quietly. Painfully.

Piece by piece.

And now? Now I wake up on my side of the bed like it’s a battlefield.

The other side is empty, cold, and cruelly untouched.

You used to reach for me in your sleep.

Now, I just reach for the past.

I sometimes wonder if you still dream of me.

If there’s a moment—just one—when your hand twitches in sleep like it used to, seeking mine.

If your heart stutters when you hear our song in a shop.

If your new lover notices the way your smile falters in April.

Because that’s when we fell in love.

We didn’t just meet. We collided.

You looked at me like I was a miracle, and I treated you like you were the only thing holding me together.

We had that kind of love that makes people roll their eyes because they’ve forgotten how it feels to be completely undone by someone’s presence.

But even fire dies out when the oxygen runs low.

And somewhere between real life and all the things we didn’t say,

we stopped breathing for each other.

People always talk about closure like it’s some kind of checklist item.

Talk it out. Cry it out. Hug. Move on.

But what happens when there’s no closure?

When they leave while you’re still mid-sentence?

When you’re stuck with a love story that never got its ending?

You learn to carry it.

Like a scar under your clothes.

Like a name you whisper only in the dark.

Like a heartbeat that’s always just one rhythm off.

Sometimes, I lie to myself.

I say I’m over you.

That I’m fine. That life moved on.

I post cute pictures. Smile at strangers. Date people who hold me right but never quite feel like home.

And every time someone says, “You deserve better,” I nod.

But my heart quietly whispers, I wanted different, not better.

If I had one more minute with you…

Just one.

I wouldn’t waste it.

I wouldn’t yell or ask you why. I wouldn’t beg you to come back.

I’d simply sit beside you and breathe.

Maybe you’d hold my hand like you used to—thumb grazing my knuckles like a nervous habit.

And I’d tell you everything I’ve rehearsed a thousand times in the shower, in the car, in bed at 3AM when the silence gets too loud.

I’d tell you that I still love you.

Not in a romantic comedy, let's-get-back-together kind of way.

But in a “you changed me forever” kind of way.

I’d tell you that no one else has ever made my heart ache and soar in the same breath.

That when you left, it wasn’t just you who walked away—it was the version of me who believed in forever.

I’d tell you I’m doing okay now. But that sometimes, just sometimes, I look at the sky and wonder if you still remember how much I loved rainy days.

And if you still hate them.

I’d tell you that I forgave you. Not because you asked me to, but because I needed to.

And finally, I’d thank you.

For loving me, even if it wasn’t enough.

For breaking me, even if it wasn’t fair.

Because through it all, I found myself in the ruins.

The thing about heartbreak no one tells you is that it doesn’t always scream.

Sometimes it’s quiet.

It hums.

It settles into your bones and lives there like a second pulse.

And one day, you’ll find yourself smiling again.

Laughing. Dancing in your kitchen. Holding someone new.

And for a moment, you’ll think you’ve finally moved on.

Until a scent, a song, a city street reminds you of them—and just like that, you’re back in the memory, heart first.

So no, I don’t want a lifetime with you anymore.

But I do wish I had one more minute.

To tell you that the love we had wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

To remind you that you were the person I chose—completely, unapologetically, and without hesitation.

And to confess, once and for all, that even though I’ve let go of the us we were…

I will never stop carrying the love I had for you.

Quietly.

Softly.

Like a final prayer whispered just before sleep.