I’ll probably never tell you I was a broken man on the day that we first met. I’ll probably never tell you that months before, I let go of someone who I convinced myself was the love of my life. I’ll probably never tell you that you reminded me being lovers and being friends did not have to be mutually exclusive entities.

I’ll probably never tell you that our first date was, at the time, the best date I had ever been on. I’ll probably never tell you the date that ultimately ended up being our last was — and still is — the best date I’ve ever been on.

I’ll probably never tell you that I always spoke about you with a smile on my face, or that seeing your name pop up on my phone would always make even my worst days a little better. I’ll probably never tell you that I never slept as soundly as with you under my arm.

I’ll probably never tell you that I replay that night and that week over in my head still searching for the answer as to where things went wrong. I’ll probably never tell you that I’ve wondered if saying nothing at all that night would have changed anything. I’ll probably never tell you that I’m still angry with you — angry because you left without any warning or explanation; angry because you left without saying goodbye; and angry because it made me question whether you ever really cared at all.

I’ll probably never tell you that you hurt me, or that part of me still carries that pain. I’ll probably never tell you that I haven’t been able to let anyone in since you left, or that part of me is afraid to because of you.

I’ll probably never tell you that part of me wants to thank you for that, while part of me can never forgive you for it. I’ll probably never tell you that part of me wishes you had stayed away, in the hopes your absence would help me forget you entirely.

I’ll probably never tell you that part of me still wants you, and that I probably always will. It probably doesn’t matter, and the truth is that’s okay. These are just some things inside I’ll probably never say.