The One Who Almost Had Me

If only he were older.

If only life carved him out of stone a few years earlier,

before I hardened, before I set rules for myself,

before I learned that wanting isn’t the same as having.

Because God, he’s everything.

That quiet strength.

That steady pulse even when the world tips sideways.

That look he gives me after he says “I love you,”

not knowing I already decoded it, and disarmed it.

He’s seven years younger than me, but he carries himself like a storm I wouldn’t mind getting caught in.

He’s not loud, not reckless.

He’s still.

And stillness is dangerous for a woman like me.

Because I don’t melt easily, but I notice everything.

If he were mine, really mine, I’d bury him in a love so complete, his past would forget him.

I’d rewrite his blueprint.

I’d ruin him for anyone else, but in the softest way possible.

But here’s the plot twist:

He’s not older.

He has a long-distance girlfriend.

He exists in a timeline that isn’t meant to merge with mine.

And I love myself more than I want to disrupt a life that isn’t mine to claim.

So I let him say those deserts.

I let him feel safe where I’ve built a fortress.

But I never let myself forget:

He’s the perfect match in the wrong season.

And I’m the lesson he’ll never unlearn.