Dear Noone,

A letter to the almost-love that lingered a little too long

Dear One That Got Away,

I hope you know I hate to address you as such — the one that got away.
First, because it makes me feel like I lost something I should have had, and that smells a little like entitlement.
Second, because it suggests you chose to be away — which might be true — but it still makes me feel like I wasn’t worthy of being chosen.
I know that’s a silly, victim-like way of interpreting people’s choices. The world does it, so why not me?

I started writing this letter, not for you, but for me — to help organize my thoughts and feel my feelings without the embarrassment of public observation. (You, of course, are the ‘public’ I mean.)

There are three things I hope to say in this long — or short — letter, in case my words fail me before the end.

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One: I miss you.
I’d say this should go without saying, but clearly it can’t.
I don’t think I’ve ever said it aloud.
But if you ever wonder — please know that I do.

I didn’t realize how much until I found myself neck-deep in your Twitter page, poring over tweets from 2020. And maybe I don’t just miss you, but who I am when I’m with you.

There was a carefreeness. A softness of soul. A rare kind of peace. I felt no need to impress, no pressure to perform — just a sense of wholeness.

In a world that demands perfection and sameness, you made space for the sacredness of imperfection.

I miss the laughter — how we always found something to laugh about. Humor was our shared language. I miss the breathless, belly-aching kind of laughter — tears rolling, hands slapping your shoulder or thigh — the kind of joy that lingers in your bones long after it’s gone.

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Two: It has taken more energy to just be your friend than it ever took to let you go.

I’ve tried — truly — to delete you from my contacts, my socials, and most frustratingly, from my mind.
But what do you even call this?
We weren’t dating.
We weren’t in a situationship.
But we also weren’t just friends.

This in-between space — where friendship feels too little and relationship feels unreachable — is exhausting.
Sometimes, I want to scream: Pick a struggle.
But I don’t because I still like the appearance of nonchalance.

I say, “It’s fine, we can be friends,” even when it feels like I’m being poked with a dozen pins in my left foot.

Do I want to be friends?
Yes, definitely.
If I’d never known you at all, and 2020 had just been a strange dream, I’d happily be your friend.

But it wasn’t a dream, and I can’t un-feel what almost was.
The memories of almost-there-but-never-really-making-it are louder than I'd like.

Maybe what I need is a light exorcism — the kind you order just to release one or two demon-adjacent attachments.

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Three: I hope you know I truly wish you well.

Sometimes, the problem isn’t the soil — it’s the seed.
And that’s okay.

Not everything unfinished is a failure.
Some stories teach you, stretch you, soften you, and then end.
Maybe that’s all we were ever meant to be.

With you, life felt like fireworks — intense and temporary.
The irony of having something I never really owned.

Still, I’m grateful.
Even for the ache.
Even for the silence.

Be well.

Warmly,
The one who stayed.

(This letter is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or relationships is purely coincidental. It is an exploration of emotion, not a retelling of fact. Lol.)