The Things I Never Said

The Things I Never Said

There’s so much I wanted to say that night,
but I smiled instead.
You looked tired,
the kind of tired that goes beyond sleep
a quiet kind of ache behind the eyes.
And I thought, maybe today isn’t the day to add more weight.


So I kept it light.
Laughed at your stories, nodded at the pauses,
filled the silences with “it’s okay”s and “I understand”s,
when what I really wanted to say was:
I miss the way we used to talk before everything felt like walking on glass.


I think about that night more than I should.
I replay it like a favorite song I’m trying to understand


every glance, every breath, every almost-confession.
And I wonder, if I had just said one honest thing,
would we still be drifting like this now?


You never knew how often I replayed our last goodbye.
Not the words those were nothing new.
“Take care.” “You too.”
But the way you didn’t look back.
The way I stood there after you left,
pretending I wasn’t still hoping you’d change your mind.


Some people think love is loud
grand gestures, late-night calls,
roses on a Tuesday just because.
But the real kind?
It’s quiet.
It’s folding someone’s shirt the way they like.
It’s remembering how they take their coffee
even when they’re not around anymore.


And regret?
It’s even quieter.
It shows up in small moments
when you hear their favorite song in a café
and pretend not to hear it,
or when someone else says their name
and your stomach twists in a way that only you notice.


If I could write you one more letter,
it would only say:
I still care. I always did. I just didn’t know how to show it
without sounding like I needed you to stay.


I would tell you that I wasn’t mad
just hurt, confused,
caught between what I felt and what I feared.
I thought if I said less, I’d lose less.
But silence, it turns out, is its own kind of goodbye.


There were so many nights I almost called.
I had the number. I had the words.
But I also had doubt, and pride,
and a heart too scared of echo.


I hope you’re well.
I really do.
Even if you’re happy in a life I’ll never be part of.
Even if you’ve tucked me into a drawer labeled “past,”
alongside old photos and forgotten promises.


There’s no bitterness left
just that soft ache you get
when a dream wakes up before you do.
And maybe that’s love too
not the holding on,
but the wishing well.


Sometimes, late at night,
when everything’s quiet except the hum of the fridge
and the sound of my own heart remembering,
I think about who we were
before the world got so loud.


And I think,

if you walked through that door right now,
I wouldn’t need big words.
I’d just look at you the way I did
when I still believed we had all the time in the world.
And maybe just maybe
you’d understand everything I never said.