I keep thinking about the word "almost."
Almost loved. Almost chosen. Almost healed.
It lingers in the silence after D.K.'s text, in the tension I carry into every room he's in, in the memory of Mira's voice and Elian's sketchpad. Almost is a shadow I can't shake off, a fog that keeps me from calling any place, any person, home.
The morning after the panel, I sit by the window with cold tea and a notebook filled with unfinished sentences. The city outside moves in slow motion. I know I should be writing. I have a deadline in two days, and an editor who's gently impatient. But every time I try, my mind loops back to yesterday.
D.K.'s voice. Elian's quiet certainty. Mira's message.
Three ghosts pulling me in different directions.
Elian texts just before noon.
Elian: Still want to visit the poetry exhibit?
We had talked about it briefly,an installation at the local art museum featuring immersive verse and soundscapes. I told him it sounded like too much feeling. He said that was the point.
I hesitate.
Then I say yes.
The museum is quieter than expected. Soft lighting, whispers, a sense of reverence like a cathedral. Elian walks beside me, not speaking, just watching. Occasionally, his hand brushes mine. He doesn't reach for it. Doesn't intrude. He simply stays near.
One room is filled with hanging letters,hundreds of pieces of paper, suspended by invisible thread. The words float, flickering slightly in the air.
I move through them like a diver in deep water.
Some are confessions. Others regrets. One reads: "I wanted you to fight for me."
I stop.
My breath catches.
Elian looks at me, eyes calm but alert.
"What did yours say?" he asks.
I don't respond. Not because I don't want to, but because I don't know which truth to choose.
He doesn't push. Just waits.
Eventually, I whisper, "Mine said: 'I wish I knew how to stay.'"
We walk on. The sound installation begins,snippets of poets reading their work, words layered with soft piano and ambient sounds. It's beautiful. Overwhelming. It reminds me how much language can hurt and heal in the same breath.
In a corner alcove, I sit on a bench. Elian sits beside me. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then, quietly, he says, "I've never known anyone who carries silence the way you do."
I turn to him. His expression is open, unguarded.
"I used to be loud," I say. "But somewhere along the way, being quiet started to feel safer."
He nods.
"Safe isn't always the same as good."
We sit with that truth.
And then, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a small book. It's a collection of poems by an author I once loved but haven't read in years. He places it in my hands.
"For when the silence gets too loud," he says.
I want to cry.
Instead, I smile.
Later, as I leave the museum, my phone buzzes.
DK: Can we talk?
Three words again. A pattern.
I think about ignoring it. About choosing quiet over chaos. But my fingers betray me.
Me: When?
DK: Now?
We meet at the park near the university, where the trees are just beginning to hint at autumn. D.K. is already there, hands in his coat pockets, eyes darker than I remember.
He doesn't greet me with a hug. Doesn't smile.
"You look different," he says.
"So do you."
A beat.
"I saw you with him. At the panel."
I cross my arms.
"Are we doing this?"
"I just… I didn't know things had changed."
"You stopped showing up, D.K. You stopped calling. You pulled away. What did you expect?"
He flinches. Just slightly.
"I was overwhelmed. Work. Life. You... scare me sometimes."
I blink. That one stings.
"I scare you?"
He runs a hand through his hair.
"Not like that. Just... how much I feel when I'm around you. How much you see. It's like you tear the walls down without even trying."
I exhale, slow.
"And that's a bad thing?"
"It's a lot."
I want to scream. But I don't. I just look at him and say, "You don't get to disappear and then come back because you're lonely."
His face crumples a little.
"It's not that. I miss you."
I shake my head.
"Missing someone isn't the same as choosing them."
That night, I walk home alone. The wind is sharp. My steps echo on the pavement like punctuation.
When I get inside, I curl up with Elian's poetry book. I don't open it. I just hold it. Like a lighthouse in the dark.
Then, without thinking too hard, I open my phone and type a reply to Mira.
Me: Why now?
Her response comes almost immediately.
Mira: I never stopped thinking about you. I just didn't know how to come back.
I stare at the screen.
Everything is shifting. Past, present, future,all folding into each other like waves. And I'm standing at the edge, unsure whether to step back or dive in.
But for the first time, I think maybe I want to learn how to swim.
On Sunday, Elian and I meet for coffee again.
He brings his sketchpad. I bring my notebook.
We don't talk about D.K. or Mira. We talk about dreams, and growing older, and whether the moon looks lonelier on Tuesdays.
At one point, I ask him, "Do you think we ever really heal, or do we just learn to carry the ache better?"
He smiles sadly.
"Both. Maybe."
I write that down.
Later that week, D.K. sends a voice note. I listen to it with headphones, curled under a blanket. His voice is raw.
"I want to be better. Not just for you. For me, too. I just don't know how to begin."
I don't reply.
Instead, I write.
And for the first time in a long time, the words come like rain.
Not forced.
Not perfect.
But honest.
And maybe that's enough.
I'm learning that the shape of "almost" isn't fixed. Sometimes it becomes "enough." Sometimes it becomes "never." But sometimes,if you're brave,it becomes "more."
And maybe that's the kind of story I want to live in.