The silence between us often spoke louder than any words ever could. And once again, I find myself lost, trying to understand, searching for a form of truth in the unspoken, in the aborted exchanges that time has forgotten, yet my mind replays endlessly, like a haunting melody I cannot erase.
I remember a conversation that never happened, a conversation I wanted to initiate, one I knew was necessary but inexplicably avoided. A simple gesture, a phrase, a single word—but nothing. Nothing broke the air, nothing pierced the void. The silence remained where something deeper, essential, should have been born—a shared understanding we never reached.
I should have spoken. It was I who delayed the inevitable, I who nurtured this distance by withholding the words that could have reached you, that could have shattered the invisible barrier I built around myself.
I wasn't afraid of you, nor of the truth. I was afraid of myself. Afraid of what it would mean, of what those words would change, of what they would reveal.
Every time I approached that line, a visceral fear consumed me, froze me, and suddenly everything felt uncertain. The words that escaped my lips were always the wrong ones, words that didn't reflect what I truly felt.
Everything felt so... off.
The mere idea of speaking about love, of exposing my feelings, paralyzed me. So I said nothing. Nothing that could have brought clarity. And you waited. Perhaps not actively, perhaps not with unbearable impatience, but I know you waited for a truth I could never offer.
The unspoken accumulated, heavy, oppressive, like invisible stones piled over time. Every avoided glance, every void in our exchanges, was another stone in the wall that grew between us. And now, I wonder: if I had mustered the courage to voice those burning words, if I had found the strength to express what escaped me every moment, would we have had a chance?
Those words never emerged. And today, I wonder what could have been if only they had crossed my lips.
If I had spoken, if I had shared my doubts, fears, desires—if I had told you what I had always wanted to say—perhaps everything would be different. But reality tells me otherwise.
Everything remained suspended in the air, waiting for something that would never come.
And here lies the regret, the unfinished. What we didn't accomplish, what we didn't explore. Those moments when everything could have shifted, when we could have found each other differently, but I chose to wait, to postpone, to flee the inevitable.
The taste of this regret is bitter. A void I cannot fill, a space left vacant by my own negligence, my hesitations, my inability to move forward.
But it's too late now, and the truth settles in the shadow of what we didn't do, of what i didn't dare to say. And though the truth is painful, it carries a chilling clarity that brings a form of acceptance I never thought possible.
Then comes this strange moment, this inner mechanism, this self-sabotage that held me back. The fear of commitment, the fear of being seen, of being fully known in who I am and what I feel.
This paralysis made me wait. Waiting for something that never came.
It wasn't for lack of desire or feeling. It was simply the fear of vulnerability, the fear that the intensity of what I felt was too great, too heavy to bear. That inner discomfort, that voice warning me that exposing myself too much could mean losing everything. And in the end, I lost.
By running from myself, by not daring, I lost what was dear to me. I became the executioner of my own aspirations. And I see it now, with a clarity that tears at my heart.
I've longed to understand what held me back from acting. Longed to understand why, in those crucial moments, I stood frozen, an impotent spectator of my own life. And it wasn't you I feared but myself. Fear of discovering I wasn't capable of giving what I should have, fear of not living up to my own hopes, fear of the reality of who I truly was. So, I let the moment slip away, and let the void settle between us.
I pause for a moment, and a wave of sadness engulfs me. The pain of truth makes me reflect deeply. Yes, I lost. But maybe that's the only way to understand. So, I slowly resume, as if each word must bear its own weight, as if, finally, each word must be an act of redemption.
I continue my response, though every letter feels heavy in the air:
**
Your words bring me a clarity I've sought for so long. And even though this truth isn't the one I wished for, it allows me to accept things as they are.
**
These words echo within me, and I grant myself a pause. Reality strikes my heart once again.
This truth frees me from a burden I didn't realize I was carrying, but it leaves a bitter taste—the taste of all that was left unsaid.
Because in truth, everything we didn't dare to say, everything we left suspended, becomes a part of us, of this story that ends without ever being fully lived.
**
I know I wasn't always the person you hoped for, and I'm sorry you felt you were chasing something that never came, or sensing a disconnect between my words and my actions.
It wasn't my intention, but I now see the reality was different from what I imagined. The situation likely created frustrations, and I mostly regret revealing myself too late.
**
I close my eyes for a moment, and in the silence, one final regret tightens my throat.
I'll never be able to fix everything left in suspension, everything unsaid, everything lost in the unfinished. But maybe, in accepting the truth, in this necessary introspection, I can find peace—even if it's bitter, even if it comes too late.
This isn't redemption, no, but recognition. The recognition that the path I chose, or accepted, has led me here, to this precise moment, where there is no turning back.
The silence between us, heavy with everything unsaid, grows denser with each passing moment. And I, in this silence, remain, unable to undo what's been said, too late to rewrite what should have been spoken.
But perhaps, deep down, it's here, in accepting my failure, that the only truth worth finding resides.