Some of the most intimate wounds are the ones no one else can see.
The almosts, the maybes, the unlived lives that haunt us quietly.
We never kissed.
Not once.
Not even when it would’ve made sense.
Not when I stayed too long after dark.
Not when your hand lingered at the small of my back like a question you were too afraid to ask.
But still, my body remembers you.
Not the way lovers remember each other.
The way ghosts do.
Peripheral. Lingering. A chill that doesn't leave even after the room warms again.
I keep finding pieces of you in the strangest places:
in a lyric I thought I’d forgotten,
in the ache behind my ribs when I laugh too hard,
in the silence I now crave more than touch.
You weren’t the one.
But god, you could have been.
And maybe that’s worse.
Because we never touched.
But I still have bruises.
And they’re the kind no one else can see,
the tender spots beneath every almost
I pretend I’ve forgotten.
Some people lose love in the end.
But I lost it before it ever began.
And that kind of grief doesn’t scream.
It whispers.
It waits.
It slips into the pause between songs.
Into the seat beside me when I’m driving at night.
Into the version of me that still hopes you’ll call.
But you won’t.
And I won’t.
Because nothing happened.
And that means everything.
Maybe we didn’t fall in love.
Maybe we just fell into memory.
And maybe that’s what hurts most:
knowing some of the most intimate stories we carry
are the ones we never get to tell out loud.
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