The Message I Deleted Too Many Times

I typed her name into my phone more times than I care to admit.

Not to call.

Not to text.

Just to stare at it.

Her contact sat there like a quiet reminder of everything I never said. Every night, I opened our chat, watched the blinking cursor, and closed it again. Words formed in my head but died on the screen.

We met online first. Two strangers connected by coincidence and late-night conversations. What started as simple hellos turned into hours of talking about dreams, fears, childhood memories, and future plans that probably would never happen.

She had this way of listening. Even through text, I felt heard. She remembered small things about me. My favorite songs. The way I overthink everything. The jokes I repeated too often. And slowly, without realizing it, she became part of my daily routine.

Good morning messages. Random voice notes. Laughing over silly videos. Sharing pictures of our coffee cups like they meant something important.

Maybe they did.

I didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened quietly. In pieces. In small moments. In the comfort of knowing someone was there.

But I never told her.

I convinced myself it was safer that way.

She talked about her life. Her struggles. Her past. Sometimes she mentioned someone else, and I would smile on the outside while something heavy settled in my chest. I played the role of the supportive friend. The good listener. The safe place.

Inside, I was fighting a silent war.

Every time she said she trusted me, my heart broke a little. Because trust without honesty feels like betrayal.

I wrote the message so many times.

“I think I care about you more than I should.”

“I don’t know when it happened, but you matter to me.”

“There’s something I’ve been holding inside for too long.”

Delete.

Rewrite.

Delete again.

I told myself I didn’t want to ruin what we had. That friendship was better than nothing. That she probably didn’t feel the same. That I should be mature about it.

Truth is, I was afraid.

Afraid of rejection.

Afraid of awkward silence.

Afraid of losing her completely.

So I stayed quiet.

Time moved forward like it always does. She got busy. Replies came slower. Calls became rare. Then one day, she told me she had met someone. Her words were gentle. Careful. Like she knew it might hurt.

I congratulated her.

I even used a smile emoji.

That night, I opened our chat and finally wrote the message I had been hiding for months. It was long. Honest. Vulnerable. I told her how much she meant to me, how she had changed me, how I wished I had been braver.

I stared at the screen for ten minutes.

Then I deleted everything.

What was the point now?

She was happy. Or at least trying to be. And I didn’t want to be the reason she felt confused or guilty. Some truths arrive too late.

After that, we slowly drifted apart. No dramatic goodbye. No big fight. Just fewer messages, longer gaps, and eventually silence.

But even now, sometimes I open my phone and type her name.

Just to see it.

Just to remember.

I realize now that not all love stories are meant to be lived. Some are meant to be felt, learned from, and carried quietly inside us. She taught me how deep connection can be. How easy it is to care. How painful it is to stay silent.

That deleted message still lives in my head.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because it reminds me that next time, with someone new, I won’t wait. I won’t hide behind fear. I won’t choose silence over honesty.

Some people come into our lives to stay.

Others come to teach us how to love better.

She was the second kind.

And I will always be grateful for that.