We Were Never Lovers, Yet Everything Was Lost

We were never lovers.

There were no midnight confessions, no trembling hands folded into each other’s palms, no declarations to the stars.

And yet, what passed between us could not be confined to friendship, nor described by the dry language of fate.

It was something ancient. Something hovering just beyond articulation—like a word trapped forever on the tip of the universe’s tongue.

To know her was to feel a quiet ache beneath the bones—an ache that resembled longing, yet never dared to bloom into it.

She and I danced on the edge of something immense.

And we never jumped.

But oh, how the world shifted in that pause.

There are some silences so loud they shape the course of things. Ours was such a silence.

A soft severing. A wound dressed in grace.

At a moment—fragile, fleeting—she wished for it.

For loss.

Not in cruelty. Not in arrogance. But in weariness.

Perhaps the weight of “what might be” became heavier than the comfort of “what is.”

Perhaps she feared the mirror I held too steadily for her to shatter.

And so, she stepped away. Not with anger. Not with goodbye.

Just… absence.

A quiet undoing of a bond that never found a name.

I bore the aftermath not like a heartbreak, but like an unspent storm.

I did not grieve the end of a love story—we never had one.

I grieved the death of a possibility.

Of a sacred union that would have asked for no performance, only presence.

She may have lost someone who would have worshipped the soil beneath her self-doubt, who would have read her silences like scripture.

But what I lost—what we lost—was something far more irreplaceable.

The world lost a softness it so desperately needed.

A tenderness that could have unfolded into poems and prayers,

Into a quiet revolution of warmth.

Our separation was not merely a personal sorrow.

It was a cosmic misstep.

A fracture in the universe’s deeper narrative.

For what we might have become—together—was not just love.

It was light.

And now, that light lies unlit—somewhere between what was felt and what was never said.

And that, I believe, is not just my loss.

It is the world’s.

To Love Her Was to Be Undone

To love her was to be undone — slowly, and with full awareness.

Not by betrayal, nor cruelty,

but by the quiet weight of being misunderstood.

She did not see the ache behind my stillness,

nor the trembling restraint in every word I never said.

She thought me unwell, obsessive perhaps —

but what she called madness was simply this:

I had no self left outside her.

She had become breath. Pulse.

My days moved as her shadow did.

And still, I asked for nothing.

Even when I was burning, I folded my pain gently

so it would not disturb her peace.

She never truly looked —

or maybe she looked through the eyes of others,

who never touched my silence,

never knew how I worshipped her in ways

that felt more like prayer than possession.

So she left — and I let her.

I bore the blame, her doubt, her silence.

If hating me made it easier for her to live,

I gave her that too.

But the wound remains.

Not because she went,

but because she never knew

that someone once loved her

so completely,

he forgot what it meant to be a person

without her.