This Is What I Meant to Say

This Is What I Meant to Say

A reflective monologue-style essay

By [KINE WILLIMS]

I didn’t say it then. I don’t know why. Maybe I was afraid of what it would mean, or maybe I thought the silence would protect me. But now, when it’s far too late for the words to matter, they won’t stop echoing in my head.

This is what I meant to say.

I miss you. That’s the easiest truth. Not in the desperate, romantic kind of way. It’s quieter than that. I miss the way you made ordinary days feel a little less gray. I miss how you’d call out my nonsense without ever making me feel small. I miss the way we laughed, like we were making up for all the years we hadn’t known each other.

But more than missing you—I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for pretending I didn’t care as much as I did. For laughing off the things that should’ve been conversations. For nodding when I wanted to fight, for walking away when I should have stayed, and for letting the silence stretch between us like a wall I didn’t try to tear down.

You once said I was hard to read, like I wore a mask I didn’t know I had on. And you were right. I kept things close to my chest not because I didn’t trust you, but because I didn’t trust myself. I was scared that if I handed you the truth, you'd see how messy, uncertain, and needy I really was. And maybe you’d leave. So I stayed behind my silence, and waited for you to read my mind.

You couldn’t, of course. You shouldn’t have had to.

Here’s what I should’ve told you: I was overwhelmed. Life had unraveled in quiet, invisible ways, and I was trying so hard to seem like I was okay. I didn’t know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden. And the more I didn’t say, the more distance grew between us—until eventually, there was too much space to fill.

I know we had our moments, the kind that stick like gum to your soul. Some were golden, warm, soft-edged. Others were sharp, biting, and full of the kind of silence that screams. We hurt each other. I know that. But I never stopped caring.

I wish I had told you how grateful I was. For the patience. For the moments you waited for me to open up, even when I slammed the door shut. For the things you gave without ever expecting them back. I wish I had told you that your presence mattered more than I ever said out loud.

There’s a strange kind of heartbreak in words unsaid. They become ghosts—haunting the back of your throat, showing up in songs, smells, and strangers’ laughter. They weigh nothing and everything at once.

Sometimes I think about what would’ve happened if I had just said one thing—anything—that night. Maybe the air would’ve shifted. Maybe you would’ve stayed a little longer. Or maybe you still would’ve walked away. But at least I would’ve known I had been honest.

Now, I only get to practice this monologue in the quiet. When the world has gone to sleep, and the only sound is the hum of my own regret. I say the things I should have said to a ceiling that never interrupts, to a phone that never rings.

You don’t owe me anything. Not a reply, not forgiveness, not even a second thought. But this—these words—they belong to you. I carried them in my chest like a letter I never mailed, and now I’m setting them free. Not for your closure, but for mine.

Because silence, I’ve learned, is not always noble. Sometimes it’s cowardice. Sometimes it’s a slow unraveling of connection that you only notice when it’s too late to tie the thread back together.

So this is what I meant to say:

I was scared, and I’m sorry.

I loved you, in my own imperfect way.

And even if the story ended without the ending I hoped for, I’ll always be grateful for the chapters you gave me.

Thank you.

Goodbye.