The Text I Never Sent

I almost texted you last night.

It was 11:43 pm., and I was sitting in bed scrolling through old photos like I’d forgotten how much it would hurt. There we were—laughing in the kitchen, your hair a mess, me holding the camera too close. The kind of happiness that didn’t need a filter.

For a second, I almost convinced myself that sending you a message wouldn’t mean anything. Just a simple “Hey, how have you been?”

But we both know that “hey” is never just a “hey.”

It’s I miss you but I’m pretending I don’t.

It’s I still think about you even though I shouldn’t.

It’s I want to know if you ever think about me too.

So I didn’t send it.

Instead, I sat there—phone glowing in my hand—and remembered how it felt to be yours, and how it felt when I wasn’t anymore.

You taught me that love isn’t always fireworks. Sometimes it’s the quiet moments—brushing your teeth next to someone, half-asleep conversations, the way you’d grab my hand when you laughed too hard. I used to think love was supposed to be loud and dramatic, like in movies. But with you, it was soft. Simple. Safe.

And maybe that’s why it hurt so much when it ended. Because losing you didn’t feel like losing a person. It felt like losing home.

I used to check my phone every few minutes, thinking maybe you’d change your mind. That maybe you’d realize that we were worth another try. But the silence became its own kind of answer.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How someone can be in every corner of your world one day—and then suddenly, they’re nowhere. How their favourite song still plays on your playlist, how their shampoo still lingers on your pillow, and yet they’re gone.

I tried moving on. I met people who were kind, funny, good. But none of them laughed the way you did, or understood that silence doesn’t always need to be filled.

One guy told me I was hard to read. I almost told him that’s because someone once read every chapter of me and then left before the ending.

Last night, as I hovered over your name, I realized something. I don’t want to know if you’ve changed your haircut or if you still drink your coffee too sweet. I don’t need to know who you’re seeing now or if they make you laugh.

Because the truth is, I’m not the same person you left. I’m softer in some ways, stronger in others. I’ve learned that healing isn’t forgetting—it’s learning to look back without wanting to go back.

So I wrote the text anyway—not to send, just to get it out of my system. It said:

“Hey. I hope you’re doing okay.

I hope you’ve found the kind of peace we both were chasing.

I hope when you think of me, it doesn’t hurt anymore.

Because it doesn’t hurt for me—not the way it used to.

I still remember you, but it’s gentler now.”

Then I deleted it.

And for the first time, it actually felt like closure.

We always think closure has to come from the other person—from some apology, some explanation, some conversation that makes everything make sense. But sometimes, closure is sitting alone at midnight, deleting the text you’ll never send, and realizing you don’t need to anymore.

Because the truth is, we were never meant to last forever. You were meant to teach me how to love gently, how to lose gracefully, and how to let go without bitterness.

So no, I didn’t text you.

But if somehow, somewhere, you ever wonder—

Yes. I did think about you.

And I hope you’re okay too

👉 “Have you ever written a text you never sent?