An open letter to my Almost â The one that got away.
Thereâs something deeply haunting about the idea of being âthe one that got away.â The one who was almost everything, but never quite became it. Itâs a feeling that lingers, a memory that fades but never disappears. And when you realize, after all these years, that the love still existsâunchanged, maybe even strongerâit 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 donât 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 wasnât on our side. Circumstances pulled us in different directions, and we became each otherâs almostâtwo 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. Itâs strange, isnât it? To realize that after all this time, we still love each other. That connection we shared, as fleeting as it was, still lingers.
Iâve often thought about how we became each otherâs almost. How we were just shy of being everything for each other. For years, I questioned why we couldnât make it work. Why, despite the love we had, we were always just out of sync. But over time, Iâve come to understand something that has brought me peace: qadrâdivine 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. Itâs easy to think of fate as something cruel, but qadr reminds me that everything happens for a reason, even the things we donât understand. We werenât meant to be together back then, not because we didnât love each other, but because it wasnât 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, Iâve held on to sabrâpatience. Not in the sense of waiting for us to reunite, but in accepting that some things arenât meant to happen when we want them to. Sabr has taught me that love doesnât 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, itâs 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. Thatâs where tawakkulâtrusting in Godâs planâcomes 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 weâre 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 doesnât necessarily mean that weâre destined to be together now. Maybe this love was never about a lifelong partnership. Maybe it was about teaching each other lessons we couldnât have learned on our own. Or maybe, it was simply about showing us that real love never dies; it just changes form.
Iâve come to trust in qadrâto believe that every moment we shared, every part of our story, was exactly as it was meant to be. The love we had wasnât wasted, even if it didnât 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 itâs 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 weâre not, then something even more beautiful is waiting for both of usâsomething we couldnât have reached had we stayed in our almost.
We still love each other after ten years, but weâve learned that love is more than holding onâitâs trusting, letting go, and believing in what is written for us. So, whether our paths cross again or we remain as each otherâs almost, I know that our story served its purpose. And in that, I find peace.
With love and trust, J.
