Letter 2

To the almosts — the ones who made promises with their presence but never their heart.

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To "the One Who Almost Loved Me"

You held me like I meant something, but never enough to hold on.

You called it timing. I called it hesitation.

You said we were close.

I said we were everything but enough.

There were no confessions, just glances.

No promises, just pauses.

And still, my heart believed in things you never said out loud.

I memorized you like a song,

and you forgot me like background noise.

Was I a detour? A distraction? A soft place to land?

I don’t know.

But I was real. I was burning.

And I wanted to be loved — not almost loved.

I write this not to shame you, but to finally say what I never could:

I deserved more.

I deserved certainty.

You were an almost.

But I am not.