It's been years.
He got married. I saw the photos online. A garden wedding. She wore yellow—his favorite color. He looked happy.
And weirdly... so did I.
I still think about him. Not in a desperate way. More like a quiet ache. The kind that lives under your ribs and flares up when your favorite song plays.
Sometimes, I write about him. Not by name. But in poems. In stories about storms and red scarves and goodbyes that never made sense.
He was the right person at the wrong time. Or maybe we were the wrong people who tried too hard to make it right.
We didn't end up together.
And that's okay.
Some love stories don't get a second chance. Some don't need one. They were real, and they mattered—even if they ended.
He was my almost. My could-have-been. My what-if.
And after we let go, I finally learned:
Not every love has to last forever to mean something.
---
~ The End ~