Dear You,
I’ve written and deleted this letter more times than I can count. But tonight, the words won’t stay down. They’re clawing their way out, like my heart used to when I was with you.
We were never official. We never had titles, labels, or the comfort of certainty. But we had moments—oh, did we have moments. Late-night texts that turned into sunrise conversations. Lingering looks across crowded rooms. That magnetic pull every time we said goodbye, like we weren’t ready to let go, but never brave enough to stay.
You made me feel seen. Wanted. Desired in a way that was addicting, even if it was laced with confusion. I told myself I was okay with the gray area—friends? Lovers? Something in between? I danced on that tightrope for longer than I should have, balancing my hope on your mixed signals.
The truth? I wanted more. I wanted to be your choice, not your convenience. I wanted Sunday mornings tangled in sheets and Wednesday night dinners where we didn’t pretend to be just friends. I wanted the world to know what we were, even if we were messy, imperfect, real.
But you? You kept me at arm’s length—close enough to feel the heat, but never close enough to hold.
And damn, did it hurt.
Walking away was the hardest thing I’ve done. But loving myself meant letting go of someone who wouldn’t choose me fully. I still think of you sometimes. I wonder if you miss me—or if I was just another whisper in the dark.
Wherever you are, I hope you’ve found what you were looking for. And I hope, deep down, a part of you remembers me—the one who was ready to love you out loud.
Goodbye, almost-lover.
—Someone Who Finally Let Go
