If I Died Tomorrow: The Regrets I’d Carry to the Grave"

If I died tomorrow, they’d find my phone full of unsent messages. Apologies half-typed. “I miss you” left hanging. A confession I was too scared to send. They’d scroll and scroll and never reach the end of what I meant to say, but didn’t.

I imagine someone reading them—my sister, maybe. She’d sit on the edge of my unmade bed, trying to understand the silences I wrapped around myself like armor. She’d find photos I never posted, smiles I faked, journals filled with pages I hoped no one would ever see. If I died tomorrow, the truth would leak out in fragments, and maybe then, they’d see who I really was.

Because the real regret wouldn’t be the things I did—it would be the things I didn’t. The birthday calls I let ring out. The friend I ghosted because I didn’t know how to say I was hurting. The love I held in my chest like a fragile bird, never giving it the chance to fly or fall.

If I died tomorrow, I know what people would say.

“She always seemed fine.”
“She was strong.”
“She was always smiling.”

I wish they knew that I smiled because it was easier than explaining. That being “fine” became a mask I forgot how to take off. That strength was never my choice—it was the only option I had left.

I’d regret not telling my father I forgave him. For the years of silence between us. For not saying, I understand now that you did your best—even when it wasn’t enough.

I’d regret not asking my mother how she kept going after everything. I watched her break in small, quiet ways—bills unpaid, dinner late, her laughter disappearing—but I never asked what it cost her to carry it all. She would’ve told me, if I’d only asked.

And there was Mia. I’d regret Mia more than anything.

We sat on the roof one summer night, seventeen and heart-wide-open. She asked me what I was afraid of. I told her nothing, but my hands were trembling. The truth was—I was terrified of losing her. Of loving her out loud. Of what my friends, my family, my world would say.

So I smiled, laughed, made a joke. And when she leaned closer, I leaned away.

She left a year later. I watched her go, said nothing, wrote letters I never sent. And I kept thinking I had time—time to explain, to apologize, to say, It was always you, I was just afraid to be me.

But time is cruel like that. It tricks you into believing it owes you something. That there will always be another moment, another chance.

If I died tomorrow, I’d take all of that with me.

The late-night walks I canceled. The poetry I never shared. The art I buried beneath fear of judgment. The parties I skipped because I thought no one would notice. The books I wanted to write. The people I loved in silence. The "I'm sorry" I kept rehearsing but never delivered.

If I died tomorrow, I wonder if anyone would know that I cried after watching strangers reunite at airports. That I memorized people’s coffee orders because it made them smile. That I always waited five minutes before deleting a risky message, hoping—just once—I’d hit send.

Maybe someone would read my journals. The ones under my bed. Page after page of what I really felt, masked by poetry and metaphors. Maybe someone would finally see the girl who lived so quietly, too afraid to take up space, but desperate to be known.

I hope they’d understand I didn’t regret failing—I regretted not trying.

And if, somehow, I could whisper one truth into the world before I went, it would be this:

Don’t wait.

Don’t wait to say I love you. Don’t wait to apologize, to forgive, to try, to dream, to leap. Don’t wait until the weight of regret is the only thing you carry. Because time doesn’t make promises. And silence doesn’t heal.

If I died tomorrow, I hope someone reads this. I hope it makes them send the message. Make the call. Write the book. Kiss the girl. Forgive the father. Dance in the rain. Cry in public. Laugh without covering their mouth. Live, even if it’s messy.

Because regret doesn’t come from the chaos—it comes from the silence.

So if you’re reading this, and your heart is aching for something you haven’t done yet, do it.

Please—before it’s too late.