Almost
There are versions of my life that almost happened. Versions of me that almost stayed, almost loved, almost survived. This is the quiet reckoning with every future I nearly stepped into, and the one I finally chose.
I looked back at the year tonight and the worst part is how quickly I accepted the damage.
The Late Walk
A late walk can unravel more than a night. The things we remember, the things we carry, the versions of us that follow. This is the story of what still walks beside me long after the streets go quiet.
I passed someone tonight with your exact build. The same white hair you always insisted wasn’t stress, the same slight hunch you carried without noticing. For a second I thought it was you. I used to call you Quasimodo under my breath, but the way my body reacted before my mind caught up wasn’t a joke.
Distance
Distance changes shape depending on where I stand; between cities, between versions of myself, between what I left and what stayed. This is the space I learned to live inside when nothing lined up anymore.
I can name the exact moment it shifted. The mosaic lamp we picked up in Williamsburg buzzing overhead, and the way you said my name in a tone that didn’t belong to you anymore. It was so foreign I almost stopped moving.
The Unsaid
There’s always a moment where the truth sits between two people, waiting. This is a small piece about the things left unspoken, the weight they carry, and the versions of ourselves that hold them.
There is one detail I keep leaving out. The part where I threw his unread books against those flimsy New York walls that sounded like cardboard when they hit, the neighbour knocking on our door to check the noise, the cats scrambling across the floor like they already knew how the night would end.