Elysian

There’s something deeply haunting about the idea of being “the one that got away.” The one who was almost everything, but never quite became it. It’s a feeling that lingers, a memory that fades but never disappears. And when you realize, after all these years, that the love still exists—unchanged, maybe even stronger—it leaves you with an odd sense of closure, mixed with a thousand what-ifs.

Ten years ago, we stood at the crossroads of becoming something real. We loved each other, though I don’t think we fully understood the depth of that love. We were younger, less experienced, trying to make sense of life, love, and everything in between. Timing wasn’t on our side. Circumstances pulled us in different directions, and we became each other’s almost—two people who could have been, but never fully became. Life happened. We moved on, or so we thought.

But here we are, ten years later, and the love never truly went away. It still lives quietly between us, unchanged by the distance, the silence, or the years that passed. It’s strange, isn’t it? To realize that after all this time, we still love each other. That connection we shared, as fleeting as it was, still lingers.

I’ve often thought about how we became each other’s almost. How we were just shy of being everything for each other. For years, I questioned why we couldn’t make it work. Why, despite the love we had, we were always just out of sync. But over time, I’ve come to understand something that has brought me peace: qadr—divine decree.

Our story, no matter how incomplete it feels, was always part of a larger plan. It was written that we would cross paths, love each other, and then go our separate ways. It’s easy to think of fate as something cruel, but qadr reminds me that everything happens for a reason, even the things we don’t understand. We weren’t meant to be together back then, not because we didn’t love each other, but because it wasn’t the right time. There were things we both needed to learn, ways we needed to grow, before we could be ready for something deeper.

Through the years, I’ve held on to sabr—patience. Not in the sense of waiting for us to reunite, but in accepting that some things aren’t meant to happen when we want them to. Sabr has taught me that love doesn’t always follow the timelines we set for it. Sometimes, it grows quietly in the background, waiting for the right moment to reemerge. And when it does, it’s more profound because it has withstood the test of time.

Even now, as we stand here ten years later, acknowledging that the love is still there, we both know that our story is still in the hands of something greater. That’s where tawakkul—trusting in God’s plan—comes in. Tawakkul has taught me to let go of trying to control the outcome. To trust that if we are meant to be, we will find our way back to each other. And if we’re not, then that too is written, and it will be for the best.

The realization that we still love each other after ten years is powerful, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re destined to be together now. Maybe this love was never about a lifelong partnership. Maybe it was about teaching each other lessons we couldn’t have learned on our own. Or maybe, it was simply about showing us that real love never dies; it just changes form.

I’ve come to trust in qadr—to believe that every moment we shared, every part of our story, was exactly as it was meant to be. The love we had wasn’t wasted, even if it didn’t end the way we once hoped. It was part of our journey, a journey that shaped us into who we are today. And now, ten years later, we can appreciate that love with a deeper understanding, knowing that it was always part of a bigger plan.

So here we are, two people who loved each other deeply but were kept apart by time, life, and fate. And after all these years, we realize that love never left us. It survived in the quiet spaces of our hearts, waiting to be acknowledged again.

But with tawakkul, I trust that whatever is written for us will happen in its own time, and if it’s not meant to be, then there is wisdom in that, too. Because if we were meant for each other, nothing in this world could keep us apart. And if we’re not, then something even more beautiful is waiting for both of us—something we couldn’t have reached had we stayed in our almost.

We still love each other after ten years, but we’ve learned that love is more than holding on—it’s trusting, letting go, and believing in what is written for us. So, whether our paths cross again or we remain as each other’s almost, I know that our story served its purpose. And in that, I find peace.