5 Things I Wish I Said Before We Turned into Strangers

5 Things I Wish I Said Before We Turned into Strangers

By [HAFSA]

We weren’t supposed to end like this.

There was no slammed door, no big fight, no dramatic goodbye. Just space—growing like moss between us. Until even our silence stopped recognizing each other.

Now, I walk past places that remember us more clearly than I do. The bookstore on 9th still has that crooked poetry section you used to fix. The bench by the river still wears our laughter like perfume. And me? I’m still carrying things I never said.

So here they are. Five things I should’ve told you before we became strangers who scroll past each other online.

1. I Loved the Way You Told Stories—Even When They Took Forever.

You used to warn me. “This is a long one,” you’d say, grinning, then launch into a winding tale that detoured through your childhood, paused for three side characters, and came back around with a punchline I usually saw coming.

I pretended to be annoyed. Rolled my eyes. Checked my watch.

But truthfully? I loved the way you told stories. You made the ordinary feel epic. A flat tire became a thriller. A trip to the pharmacy, a sitcom. And somewhere in the middle, I fell in love with the way you saw the world.

I wish I told you that your stories made the silence between them feel like home.

2. I Didn’t Know How to Fight For Us—So I Didn’t.

I thought love meant never fighting. That if we were “right,” we wouldn’t need raised voices or late-night arguments or tissues on the kitchen counter.

But distance doesn’t always start with anger. Sometimes it begins with too many “It’s fine”s and “We’ll talk later”s. I mistook calm for safety. I thought avoiding conflict meant avoiding damage.

I didn’t realize the cracks were forming in the quiet.

I wish I had fought for us sooner, before the silence became permanent.

3. I Kept My Dreams Small Because I Was Afraid You’d Leave If They Got Too Big.

I told you I wanted to stay in town, get a modest job, keep life simple. And maybe part of that was true.

But there was a version of me that wanted more—more places, more pages, more sky. I buried her under what I thought you wanted. What I thought we could sustain.

I never gave you the chance to love the version of me who dreamed big. Maybe you would’ve. Maybe you wouldn’t. I’ll never know.

I wish I had let you see all of me, not just the parts that fit inside our shared calendar.

4. I Forgive You for Leaving Quietly.

You didn’t ghost me. You just... dimmed. Fewer texts. Shorter calls. No more plans for next weekend.

I kept hoping it was a phase. That life had just gotten busy. That you’d bounce back. But you didn’t. And I didn’t ask. I just let you drift, like a balloon I wasn’t brave enough to pull back.

At first, I was angry. Then numb. Then nostalgic.

Now, I just hope you’re okay.

I wish I had told you I understood, even if it hurt.

5. You Were My Favorite Hello. And I Hate That I Don’t Know How You’re Doing Now.

Of all the small, sharp sadnesses I carry, this one cuts deepest.

You were once the person I told everything to—what I had for lunch, what song got stuck in my head, what weird dream I had about being chased by talking muffins.

And now, you’re just... gone.

Not gone-gone. Just someone else’s good morning. Someone else’s Sunday plan. A digital ghost in my contacts list.

I wish I had told you I never wanted to lose you. That even now, part of me still types your name out sometimes, then deletes it before pressing send.

Maybe you’ll never read this. Maybe it’s better that way. But writing it down makes me feel like I’ve at least sent these words out into the world—even if they never reach you.

And if, by some small miracle, you ever stumble across these lines, know this:

You were loved. Deeply. Silently. And still, in the quiet corners of my memory, you are.

The End.