This Is What I Meant to Say

This Is What I Meant to Say;

I rehearsed it a hundred times in my head.

In the shower. On long walks. In the pauses between conversations. I even whispered it into my pillow some nights, just to see how the words felt in the air. But every time the moment came, I stayed silent. I smiled instead. I changed the subject. I told myself it wasn’t the right time — or worse, that you already knew.

But the truth is, you didn’t. And I never said it.

This is what I meant to say.

I loved you. In the quiet way people fall in love with someone who doesn’t belong to them. The kind of love that fits in glances across crowded rooms, in messages I almost sent, in the way I remembered little things about you that you probably forgot you ever told me.

I loved the way your voice softened when you talked about your sister. The way your hands moved when you were excited. The way you could make strangers laugh within minutes — and how you always seemed so alive in places where I felt small.

But I never told you any of that. I was afraid of ruining the closeness we had. I didn’t want to hand you my heart only for you to look at it like a question you never asked. I thought it was noble, even selfless, to protect what we had by never reaching for more. Now, I’m not so sure.

You used to ask me what I was thinking. Remember that? You’d tilt your head, half-smiling, and say, “You’re being quiet again.” And I’d shrug, make a joke, or say “nothing important.” That was a lie.

What I was thinking — what I was always thinking — was, “God, I wish I could tell you.”

That it hurt to be close to you sometimes. That I wondered what it would feel like to hold your hand in a way that meant something more. That I wrote poems about you and deleted them because I was scared you’d somehow see them and know.

And sometimes, when you talked about the people you were dating, I wanted to disappear. I smiled like a good friend. I gave advice. I asked the right questions. But inside, I was folding myself into something smaller so I wouldn’t take up too much space in your life.

And now you’re gone — not forever, just far enough. New city. New job. New someone, maybe. We still talk, but it’s different. It’s light. It’s safe. It’s full of emoji reactions and vague updates and none of the depth we once had.

I don’t know when it happened, that slow drifting apart. Maybe it was inevitable. Or maybe I let it happen because I never gave you the truth of me. I never gave you the chance to choose or walk away. I just... decided for both of us that silence was better than rejection.

That’s the thing about silence — it pretends to protect, but really, it buries.

So this is me, unearthing it all. Not because I expect anything now. Not because I want to undo what’s been done. But because I owe it to myself — and maybe to the ghost of what we could’ve been — to say it, finally.

I loved you. I don’t anymore, not in the same way. But there’s a corner of my heart you still live in — not haunting, just gently existing. Like an unopened letter I still keep in a drawer. A reminder of a truth I was too scared to send.

And if I could go back, I wouldn’t rewrite everything. I wouldn’t demand answers or ask you to love me back. I’d just sit next to you, maybe on one of those long drives where we used to laugh about nothing, and I’d say, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Maybe you’d be surprised. Maybe not. But at least the silence wouldn’t have the last word.

That’s what I meant to say.

And even if you never hear it — I’m still glad I finally said it now.