I wish I’d had the guts to tell someone I loved them. I didn’t. And now it’s too late.
That’s the ugly truth. Not the movie version with the music swell and the last-minute confession in the rain – just silence. Me. Alone. Again.
I met someone recently who made me feel something I hadn’t felt in years. Not lust. Not obsession. Just that rare, terrifying feeling that maybe – maybe – life wasn’t done surprising me. They had this light about them. You know the kind – the sort of person who walks into a room and somehow everything shifts a bit brighter.
And what did I do? Absolutely nothing. I played it safe. I joked. I stayed on friendly ground. Because that’s what I do best – I hide behind wit and charm and pretend I’m fine with being “the nice one,” “the good friend,” the one who never says too much.
But deep down, I’m furious with myself. Because I knew I was falling. I knew what I wanted to say. And I didn’t.
Why? Fear. Pride. The pathetic need to protect myself from rejection – even though rejection is basically the default setting by now. I told myself I was being smart. That it wasn’t the right time. That maybe they didn’t feel the same. But let’s call that what it is: cowardice dressed up as logic.
And now, they’ve moved on. Life goes on. And I’m sitting here, trying to convince myself that it doesn’t matter – that being “left on the shelf” is some kind of noble endurance test instead of what it really is: a slow, lonely punishment for not being honest.
The truth is, I’m sick of being safe. Safe gets you nowhere. Safe keeps you single. Safe keeps you watching someone else live the life you were too scared to reach for.
I wish I’d told them I loved them. I wish I’d risked the awkwardness, the rejection, the embarrassment – all of it. Because anything would’ve been better than this gnawing silence.
So yeah. Left on the shelf again. But this time, it’s my own damn fault.