Things I Wish I Had Said Before She Left

I still remember the exact day she left.

It wasn’t dramatic, like a door slammed shut or words screamed in anger. It was quieter. Quieter than I expected. One of those endings that doesn't feel like an ending until you look back and realize you never spoke again.

She just stopped replying.

Her name was Zara. My best friend since eighth grade. The girl who once swore that even if the world flipped upside down, we’d hold on to each other. We knew everything about one another—our crushes, our childhood fears, the weird way we both peeled oranges. We had matching keychains. Silly things, really, but they felt sacred.

And now, two years later, I can’t even remember the last thing I said to her. But I do remember all the things I didn’t say.

I wish I had told her that I was sorry—for how distant I became. I wish I had explained that my silence wasn’t anger, but sadness. That I didn’t know how to talk about what I was going through. That my mom’s illness had drained me in ways I didn’t have words for, and I wasn't trying to push her away.

But she didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell. And slowly, painfully, our messages turned from paragraphs to one-word replies, then nothing at all.

I wish I had said that I missed her even while she was still right there. That even in the group hangouts and voice notes, there was a version of her I was already grieving—the one who used to call at midnight just because she had a funny dream, or the one who’d drag me out of bed just to walk to the corner store and buy unnecessary snacks.

I should’ve told her that I noticed how she started hanging out with people I didn't know. How every photo she posted felt like a stab—not because she was happy, but because she was happy without me. I should’ve said that jealousy is an ugly thing, but it was never about hating her. It was about loving her too much to know how to let go.

And I wish I had asked her: Did I do something? Did I hurt you and not realize? Because silence can be worse than arguments—it’s slow poison. It makes you imagine every possible scenario except the truth.

There were times I drafted messages, whole essays in my Notes app, trying to find the perfect words. But the fear always won. Fear of sounding desperate. Fear of confirming that she didn’t care anymore. Fear that maybe I didn’t matter as much to her as she still mattered to me.

I wanted to tell her I was proud of her. That I saw her doing all the things she once only dreamed of. That despite everything, I still cheered for her silently from the sidelines like a forgotten fan at a game no one else showed up for.

I never told her that sometimes, when something funny happens, she’s still the first person I want to text. And that I still type her name into the search bar, hoping she’s doing okay—even though I don’t hit send.

And if I had just one more conversation with her, I wouldn’t beg her to come back. I’d simply say: Thank you. For showing me what real friendship looked like. For the way she made my loneliness feel less sharp, back when I didn’t even know how lonely I was. For all the laughter, the shared secrets, and even the heartbreak. Because she made me feel seen in a way I haven’t felt since.

But she left. And I never said any of it.

So now, I carry it all in a quiet pocket of my heart. Unsent messages. Unspoken love. Unfinished stories.

Maybe one day, she’ll find this. Or maybe not.

But I needed to say it—finally.