Three years ago, things were simpler.
There were no "goodbyes," no "what-ifs," no aching hearts pretending to be fine. There was only us — two best friends who swore we'd never drift apart.
I still remember the first time he held my hand.
It wasn't romantic or planned. It just… happened. We were running in the rain after school, laughing like kids, soaked from head to toe. I slipped on the muddy path, and he caught me, his hand wrapping around mine.
"Careful," he said, smiling through the downpour. "You'll fall if I'm not around."
Back then, I thought he was joking.
Now I know — he meant it. He was always there to catch me. Until the day I let him go.
We spent countless afternoons in that old café near the campus, sharing secrets over cheap coffee and half-eaten pastries. I'd talk about my dreams; he'd talk about his fears. And every time he looked at me, I swear, the world just… stopped.
Everyone said we looked good together. But we laughed it off, denying what we both knew was true. Maybe we were scared — scared of ruining something perfect, scared of naming what was already ours.
Until one day, he stopped waiting for me to choose.
He got accepted to a university abroad. I told him I was proud, but inside, I was breaking. I wanted to tell him to stay — to say don't go, not yet.
But instead, I smiled and said, "Go chase your dreams."
He looked at me for a long moment, like he was waiting for something — maybe for me to stop him. But I didn't.
I just watched him walk away.
That was the last day I saw him before everything changed.
And now, standing here years later, I wonder if he remembers that day too.
Because I do.
Every single detail of it.
The rain, the goodbye, the silence between words we never said.
If only I had been brave enough to say I love you.
Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be too late.