Some nights
I don’t meet the life I almost lived.
I feel her breathing behind my ribs,
like a ghost that learned my name
and never left.
She wears my face
like a borrowed mask.
Same skin. Same voice. Same past.
But her eyes don’t carry my weight.
They don’t know the taste of giving up
in small, daily sips.
I stand in front of her
like a crime scene I keep returning to.
No questions.
No forgiveness.
Just the quiet proof of what I didn’t become.
‘Almost’ isn’t a word anymore.
It’s a wound that never learned how to close.
It follows me into every room,
sits beside me in every mirror,
leans in and whispers
the names of all my exits.
There are mornings on her map
I buried before they could rise.
Sunlight that knocked once
and I pretended not to be home.
Versions of me
that died quietly in my head
so the world wouldn’t have to do it for me.
I was almost fearless. Almost a voice instead of an echo. Almost someone
who didn’t ask permission
to take up space.
This isn’t heartbreak.
It’s colder than loss.
It’s the slow rot of realising
I was both the cage
and the thing inside it.
It’s watching my shadow
outgrow my body,
learn my shape,
my excuses,
my favourite ways to disappear,
and use them better than I ever did.
Some nights I reach for her –
not to become her,
but to check if she’s still alive in me,
or if I finally killed her
by choosing ‘later’
one too many times.