A Love Letter to Almost

I still remember the first time we met — not because it was dramatic or cinematic, but because it was quietly significant, like a puzzle piece sliding into place without a sound. You walked into the room, and I swear, time didn’t stop, but it did pause — just for a second. That was all it took for something unspoken to form between us.

It wasn’t love at first sight. No, it was something slower, something deeper. A kind of recognition. Like our souls nodded at each other from across the room and said, “Oh. There you are.”

We weren’t perfect for each other — not in the way fairy tales like to pretend people are. You liked things in order; I thrived in chaos. You believed in logic; I was poetry in motion. And yet, somewhere between the differences and the contradictions, we created a space that felt like home. Not permanent, maybe. But safe. Real.

And that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?

We weren’t a mistake.

We weren’t wrong for each other.

We were just… almost.

Almost something unforgettable.

Almost something infinite.

Almost forever.

I find myself replaying the little moments more than the big ones. The way you said my name when you were half-asleep. The soft brush of your fingers against mine when we passed a coffee cup between us. The way we laughed in sync, like our joy had rhythm.

Those are the things that haunt me.

Not the ending. Not the silence.

But the almost.

The way you looked at me like I was the answer to a question you didn’t know how to ask.

The way I tried to be brave, even when I felt the foundation of us cracking beneath my feet.

I think we both knew it couldn’t last. Maybe we even knew it from the beginning. We were pages from different books, accidentally sewn into the same chapter. And for a while, that chapter was beautiful. God, it was beautiful.

But beautiful things aren’t always meant to stay. Some are just meant to be remembered.

I still think about the night we almost said it — those three words. The way your lips parted like they were ready to give in, but fear held them still. I wanted to say it too. I wanted to scream it. But my courage folded under the weight of what if.

What if I said it and you didn’t feel the same?

What if you said it and it made everything real — too real?

What if love wasn’t enough?

So we didn’t say it.

We sat there in silence, our hands inches apart, our hearts beating stories we’d never tell.

You see, this isn't a letter written in bitterness. It’s not filled with anger or regret. I don’t hate you. I never could.

Because to hate you would mean I didn’t cherish what we had. And I did. I do.

I still carry your laughter in my memory like a song I once danced to.

I still turn my head sometimes, expecting to see you there, even though I know you’re not coming back.

And I don’t blame you for leaving.

Or for staying quiet when you could’ve spoken.

Or for choosing a different path.

Because the truth is — we were always temporary.

Maybe that’s what makes it sacred.

We weren’t built to last, but we lasted long enough to leave an imprint.

You were a season in my life, and God, you bloomed beautifully.

Now, when people ask me about love, I don’t tell them about the grand gestures or the dramatic endings.

I tell them about you.

I tell them about almost.

Because almost is its own kind of love — quieter, yes, but no less real.

It’s the love that didn’t end in forever but still changed you.

It’s the goodbye you never really say.

The closure that never quite closes.

So here it is.

A love letter to you — to us — to the space we filled and the silence we left behind.

I hope you're out there, living fully, laughing loudly, loving completely.

And maybe, just maybe, when the world slows down, you think of me too.

Of what we had.

Of what we almost were.