WHAT WE ALMOST WERE
We didn’t end all at once—
we unraveled,
like headphones in a pocket,
slow knots tightening
until nothing made sense anymore.
You stopped saying my name
like it meant something.
I stopped asking questions
I was scared to hear answered from you.
Somewhere between “good morning”
and silence,
we lost the version of us
that used to feel impossible to break.
I still remember the last time we laughed—
not because it was special,
but because we didn’t know
it would be the final time of us.
Now everything reminds me of you
in the smallest ways—
songs I don’t play anymore,
places I walk past too fast,
words I almost text
before I remember
there’s no “us” to send them to.
You said we’d be okay.
You just didn’t mean together forever.
And maybe that’s the part that hurts most—
not that we ended,
but that we were something real
that couldn’t stay…