The Space of Almosts
“We accept the love we think we deserve,” said Stephen Chbosky.
I’m not sure I agree.
I loved like it was everything.
I loved her with all I had,
…and it still wasn’t enough.
I thought love could fix me.
Instead, it left me broken,
my heart stolen, my hands empty.
Maybe it’s not about what we deserve.
Maybe it’s about what we’re brave enough to hold onto.
And I… wasn’t.
I close my eyes, and I still see it.
Her, etched into my mind
like it never learned how to fade.
Walking her home in the rain,
my jacket over our heads,
my hand holding hers,
tiptoeing, laughing, like the world didn’t exist.
Sharing playlists,
scooter rides with no destination,
stopping for her favourite coffee,
hands brushing on crowded streets,
her head on my shoulder every chance she got,
late-night calls that stretched past dawn.
And when it went from that to losing her,
I didn’t just lose her;
I lost the version of me that believed in love.
I used to think love was permanent.
Now I live in the space of almosts.
Late-night drinks, evening coffees with people I barely know.
I swipe left on anything that feels long-term.
I scroll through endless conversations.
And even when I end up at her place,
I leave before anyone gets too close emotionally.
It looks fancy from the outside.
Inside, I’m just learning how to exist
without getting burned again.
People still fall for me.
I don’t know why, but they do.
It happens over wine,
in long messages,
in that quiet second before a kiss.
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They speak with hope in their hands.
I smile. I make it less serious than it is.
And disappear the way I always do.
Not because I’m empty, but because I remember
what love took the last time I let it stay.
I tell myself I’m being careful.
Leaving early isn’t fear. It’s survival.
Knowing how it’s going to end? That’s control.
But some nights, control just feels like
lying alone on my bed in my house,
pretending that’s enough.
I miss the way I used to throw myself in
without thinking.
Laughing out loud.
Talking on the phone till, like, 2 a.m.
Saying the wrong things at the right time.
I miss the version of me
who didn’t check his watch,
who didn’t plan the exit
before the night even started.
Now, like I said,
it’s dinners with women I barely know
and don’t really want to either.
Coffee with people I’ll probably forget next week.
Dancing at bars with strangers.
These are the moments I wanted to live with her.
These are also the moments where I almost feel something with someone else,
until I make sure I don’t.
I collect scraps of connection
instead of reaching for anything real.
Maybe one day I’ll stop confusing alone with safe.
Maybe I’ll remember that falling,
that caring too much,
isn’t a flaw.
Maybe I’ll remember how to love again.
Maybe I’ll find someone.
But for now, I carry her in the quiet moments.
The way she laughed at my dumb jokes.
The way she stole my hoodies.
The way her hands fit perfectly into mine.
Hoping that part of me is still there.
That it can happen once again.
That…. I can love again.
