Things I never text back

I saw your name.

No photo. Just a static grey

and a message that made

my stomach shift.

You said *hey*.

Like it was yesterday.

Like nothing broke.

Like I didn’t drift.

I didn’t open it.

I knew the tone—

a lowercase olive branch

you’d throw, then leave me to decode alone.

You liked me

before I learned to pause.

Back when I drank like a dare

and danced without cause.

You said you missed

my laugh, my heat—

the way I’d burn the night alive

and collapse at your feet.

But what would I say?

That I’m softer now?

That I finally sleep?

That I don’t keep score

and no longer chase what won’t keep?

That the silence between us

wasn’t punishment—

just peace

you never taught me to believe in.

I started to type,

then backspaced slow.

Some truths can’t live

in the places we go

when we’re lonely,

when we want a flicker

of who we were

but not the mirror.

You never wrote again.

And I never read the thread.

But sometimes your name

still buzzed in my head—

that gentle echo

of everything

I never said.