Unsent

I typed that message a hundred times.
Sometimes at 2 a.m.
Sometimes after I saw your name pop up in my dreams
like it was still allowed to live in my head rent-free.
Other times it was after scrolling through your old photos,
pretending I was just bored,
not broken.

But I never hit send.
Not once.

Do you want to know the truth?

I miss you.
That’s it. That’s the ugly, embarrassing truth.
I miss you in the smallest ways.
Like when I hear your favorite song
and pretend it doesn’t hurt.
Like when I have something to say
and realize you’re not the first person I can tell anymore.

You used to be my person.
Now you’re just
a name I hesitate to say out loud,
like a wound I don’t want to reopen
but can’t stop poking.

I wanted to ask you things.
Like, why did you leave without saying goodbye?
Why did you disappear from my life
but still visit my thoughts like it’s nothing?

You said we were okay.
You said you’d always be here.
But “always” turned into “seen”
and “seen” turned into “nothing.”

God, I wish I hated you.

It would’ve been easier,
cleaner.
But no.
I still defend you in my head,
like I’m trying to justify the silence.
As if I was too much.
As if I asked for too much.
As if loving you
was a crime I need to apologize for.

I’ve written a hundred versions of this message.

One was angry:
“You’re a coward. You don’t even know what love means.”

One was desperate:
“Please talk to me. I just need to understand.”

One was poetic, because I thought
maybe if I made it sound beautiful,
you’d come back:
“You were my sky. And I was just a star trying to burn bright enough for you to notice.”

But none of them made it out of the drafts.
Not a single one.

Because deep down,
I think I knew
you wouldn’t answer.

And maybe it’s better this way.
Maybe silence
is the only honest ending
you were ever capable of.

But damn,
I wish I could go back
to the moment you left
and ask for the truth.
Even if it shattered me.

Because this not-knowing?
It’s a slow death.
One where I keep texting
a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.

Maybe that’s why I never pressed send.

I wasn’t afraid of your reply.
I was afraid of no reply.
That quiet space
after my words reached nowhere.
Like throwing a bottle into the ocean
and realizing
you were never on the other side to catch it.

So, I wrote this instead.
A letter, a whisper,
a final message
to the void you left behind.

Unsent.
Unread.
But never unloved.