I Think You’ll Regret The Chance You Didn’t Take On Her

guy in forest, guy regretting leaving her, relationships
Samuel Edwards

I think, in the back of your mind, you’ll always wonder.

Before you fall asleep at night, as you scroll absentmindedly through your phone, that name will pop up on your screen, the one you’ve been trying not to think about and like clockwork you’ll fall back into missing her again. Or as you wake up, roll over to shut off your alarm, you’ll feel her absence beside you, the cold side of the pillow right next to where you lay your head. Or when you’re just trying to move through the monotony of your day, readjusting in that uncomfortable office chair, sipping coffee, answering emails, you’ll start to wonder what it would be like to text her, to meet her for drinks after work, to come home together to a little apartment where you could share the stove and make dinner, side by side.

I think, in the quiet moments you’ll miss her the most. The way she filled the room with her laughter. The way you could be sitting next to one another, sharing the same space, same couch, same plate of snacks, and be completely connected, saying nothing at all.

I think you’ll miss her in the loud moments, too. Watching football, wanting to throw your arm around her shoulders as your team makes another touchdown. At a concert, wishing she could be there to dance with you, your bodies falling into an easy rhythm as the chords change. Getting on the bus to commute, and longing to talk to her, to drown out all the other busy sounds.

I think you’ll regret the chance you didn’t take on her, but I wonder, by then, if you’ll be too late.

You could have believed. You could have stepped forward. You could put aside all your doubt and trusted in something wild and wonderful. You could have listened to the feeling in your chest you spent so much time pressing down, pushing back, pretending wasn’t there.

But instead you let your rational side take over. You let yourself be led by fear. And you walked away, acting like what you had meant nothing.

I feel sorry for you. For her. For what the both of you had the potential to be, but never became. A close-but-not-close-enough, a halfway connection, an almost-love.

I think, when it’s a lazy Saturday morning you’ll long for her. Long for her soft, warm hand on your shoulder. Long for the way the hours stretched on so beautifully when you were next to one another, talking about dreams and favorite foods and plans for the day.

I think, when it’s dinnertime you’ll miss her. Miss the way the two of you rotated around the kitchen, chopping and talking and arguing over how much spice to put in the crockpot and both feeling lucky to be with someone who cared, so much, about the little things.

I think, when you find yourself in the arms of someone else, you might find happiness. As I wish for the both of you, and I’m sure she wishes for you, too. But honestly, I think, as you wrap your heart around another person, trying to find what you’ve been missing in the sweetness of her lips, you’ll still feel unsatisfied.

You’ll still have a tiny hole of emptiness from the chance you didn’t take, the faith you let fall flat, the wish you didn’t chase. From the love that could have been, now unraveling underneath your fingertips until it’s just one gaping void in the fabric of your being that no patch can ever fully fix. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Marisa is a writer, poet, & editor. She is the author of Somewhere On A Highway, a poetry collection on self-discovery, growth, love, loss and the challenges of becoming.

Keep up with Marisa on Instagram, Twitter, Amazon and marisadonnelly.com

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