I Wrote This While Imagining a Life That Almost Was

In another life,
you stayed.
Not forever—
just long enough to ruin me properly.

I imagine us in small rooms
with big silences,
where love still hangs in the air
like dust you never fully clean away.
We don’t fight much there.
We just slowly forget
how to touch without hesitation.

In that life,
I learn your sadness by heart.
I memorize the days you go quiet,
the nights you stare at the ceiling
like it owes you answers.
I become fluent in pretending I’m okay
because loving you feels too fragile
to be honest all the time.

Sometimes, in my imagination,
you still love me—
just not in the way that saves us.
You love me like a habit,
like something familiar you don’t want to lose
but also don’t want to fight for.

I imagine us breaking
not all at once,
but in pieces so small
we don’t notice until it’s too late.
A missed call here.
A delayed reply there.
A sentence we never finish
because we’re tired of explaining ourselves.

In that life,
I stay longer than I should.
I tell myself love is supposed to hurt,
that patience will eventually turn into happiness.
I confuse endurance with devotion
and call it loyalty.

There’s a version of me
who waits by the door every night,
not for you to come back,
but for the version of you
who used to care this deeply.
She waits until hope feels embarrassing
and disappointment feels familiar.

And when we finally end—
it’s quiet.
No screaming.
No dramatic goodbye.
Just the soft realization
that we’ve both been grieving
while still sharing a bed.

In this life,
the real one,
you’re already gone.
But sometimes I visit that imaginary world
just to remind myself
that leaving hurt less
than staying would have.

And somehow,
that thought hurts the most.