I’ve spoken to many boys in my life, but you’ll always be my favorite. The one who knew me like the back of your hand. You always had the perfect thing to say, and you always knew when to say it. But that’s what made it worse, because along with that, you knew exactly how to get to me when I was at my lowest. You knew I was wrapped around your finger, that no matter what, I’d always come back. You knew my favorite restaurants, my Starbucks order. You knew when I posted a story with the secret hope you’d slide up. And when I drank just a little too much wine, you knew it was coming—the dreaded “What are we?” question. And we’d argue. Well, I’d argue. You never would. Because deep down, you knew you were wrong. You knew it was wrong to hurt me the way you did, but you wouldn’t let me go. I guess I believe you cared about me. Maybe you still do. At least I’d like to think so. And I know I was delusional—probably still am, a little—but you were my almost maybe.
My friends hated you long before I did. They saw it—saw the hurt in me before I even understood it myself. They knew every time we were out and I was angrily texting in the corner, it was because of you. You ruined so many nights. But every time I swore I was done, swore I’d never go back, they were the ones holding me, wiping my tears, telling me I needed to be done—but never telling me I was wrong, never making me feel stupid. Even though I knew they were thinking it. They knew I loved you. They knew you were my almost maybe.
Then there was my mom. The endless questions: “Is he your boyfriend?” “Why does he come over here, but you never go to his place?” “Why don’t you post that cute picture of you two on Instagram?” She never wanted to say it outright, but I knew she was worried. She knew I wasn’t happy. Every time I came home crying, though, she never said “I told you so.” She just held me, wiped my tears, and waited until I was ready to talk. She told me, “Any boy you’re truly meant to be with will never make you cry like this.” And she was right. But she knew—you were my almost maybe.
And when I have a little girl one day, and she comes home with a broken heart, I’ll tell her about you. I won’t question her or push her. I’ll just hold her, wipe her tears, and tell her that the one meant for her will never make her feel like this. That it’s okay to cry, to be a wreck for a while. But she shouldn’t have to feel this way. She should never feel like she’s not enough. Especially not because of an almost maybe.
I’ll never forget the gut-wrenching feeling when I saw her post that first picture of you two on Instagram. I already knew about her, but seeing it on my screen made everything real. It was like my world stopped. You were giving her everything I begged for, for over two years. I wasn’t good enough for that, but she was. That feeling of loneliness, of not being enough, was overwhelming. And yeah, I texted you after. I know I shouldn’t have. It was a terrible decision. But you had just been texting me weeks before, asking to hang out. How could you now be with her? How could she be so beautiful? It wasn’t fair. It should’ve been me. I hope you treat her better than you treated me. I hope you never make her question her worth, or feel like she’s second choice. I hope you plan things for her. I hope she doesn’t go to sleep upset. And, selfishly, I hope you learned that lesson from me. She’s beautiful, and I’m happy for you—it took a long time to say that, but I am. That’s all I could ever want for you. But she doesn’t know that I was your almost maybe.
I’d love to say I’m stronger now, that I’ve grown from all this. But the truth is, I’d give anything for just one more conversation with you. You will always be my weakness, and I hate it. But I will always love you, even though I don’t need you. Maybe that’s what strength is—knowing that I can love you and still walk away. You taught me what love shouldn’t be. You made me realize my worth, made me see that it’s not okay to lead people on. Maybe there’s a reason almost maybes don’t turn into something more. Maybe they’re meant to teach us a lesson. And maybe I should be grateful for that. But it’s still hard to accept that all you’ll ever be is my almost maybe.