You Were Never Mine
You were never mine, and perhaps that is why I never learned how to lose you.
You were just a boy from a chapter I thought I had closed— a familiar face between school bells, a name that once made ordinary days feel a little less ordinary.
Then life happened.
You left for a city I could only imagine, and I stayed behind with memories I thought time would eventually erase.
Years passed.
And one day, I reached out—not knowing why, not knowing what I was hoping to find.
Until one completely ordinary day, you appeared again, out of nowhere.
You remembered me.
Not just me— the name you had once given me.
You probably said it casually, as though it meant nothing.
But you don’t know how a single forgotten nickname can become an entire universe to someone who has missed you.
For a moment, I wondered if perhaps I had stayed somewhere in your memory the way you had stayed in mine.
And then you disappeared again.
No ending. No explanation. Just distance returning to where it had always belonged.
But you stayed.
Not beside me— never that.
You stayed in the quiet places: in songs I can’t listen to casually, in memories that arrive without warning, in the strange ache of wondering where you are and whether you ever wonder about me.
I never told you.
Maybe I was afraid that saying it aloud would make something beautiful feel small.
So I kept loving you in the only way I knew how— silently, from a distance, asking nothing from you.
And perhaps you will never know that there was someone who remembered your voice, your little nickname, the boy you were before the world changed you.
Someone who still misses you on ordinary days for no particular reason.
Someone who sometimes wonders what would have happened if life had given us one more conversation.
You were never mine.
But somehow, you became a part of me that I never learned to let go of.
And maybe that’s all this love was ever meant to be—
not a story we lived, but a story I quietly carried alone.