the archive of almost-goodbyes

i've been writing letters in my head for years.
to lovers,
to friends,
to strangers i only met once but carried with me anyway.

not because i’m planning to leave,
but because sometimes
life forgets to wait for your plans.

this isn’t a confession.
it’s an offering.
a just-in-case.

a soft-lit hallway of words
i never found the courage to say out loud,
because i was afraid they might sound
too much or too little.

because i feared that meaning
would melt between my mouth and your ears,
and you’d hear something i didn’t mean.

i don’t want to be remembered
as someone who wanted to disappear.
i want to be remembered
as someone who wanted to be understood.
there’s a difference.

i want you to know that
i am not just a person—i am a museum.
and you are the exhibits.

you,
who once handed me a quiet kindness in a loud world.
you,
who cracked open your joy and let me taste a piece of it.
you,
who sat beside me on nights that did not ask for words.

each of you a frame,
a corner,
a breath echoing down the halls of me.

i am built from borrowed moments,
stitched together
like stained glass from a hundred almost-goodbyes.

i keep trying to write the perfect sentence that says:
i was here, i loved you,
please don’t forget the way i laughed when i meant it.

but nothing ever feels quite enough.
so i write anyway.
clumsy,
flawed,
unfinished.
like most of the good things we never knew how to hold.

i think what scares me most
is the silence that follows misunderstanding—
the kind that stretches over years
like a ghost wearing your name.

i don’t want to haunt the people i’ve loved.
i want to leave behind echoes
they can rest in.

gentle echoes.
ones that feel like a hand on your back,
like a window opening,
like a song you forgot you knew the words to.

if you're reading this after i’m gone,
please don’t mistake it for a farewell.
this is not a goodbye.
this is a just in case.

because life is a hallway without signs,
and i never knew
which door would be the last one i’d walk through.

but i hoped—
still hope—
you’ll walk into a room someday
and feel me there.

not like a shadow,
but like light warming the floor.

and you’ll know:
i meant it. all of it.
even if i never said it right.