late night letters

to the people who stay in memory, not in life

us.

some love stories don’t end. they just happen at the wrong time.

and that’s the beauty of what never was. no ending. no ruin. just a memory of something that never got the chance to break.

you were never mine. but in some soft, impossible way… you were the love that taught me how deeply i could feel.

they say if it never began, it shouldn’t hurt. but how do you explain missing something that only ever existed in glances, pauses, and “what ifs”?

some people you don’t forget not because they did anything, but because they could’ve been everything.

we were two people who paused just before the fall. who almost crossed the line — and maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. no mistakes. no damage. just the ache of possibility.