To the man I never quite got over,
Six years is a long time to carry someone in your heart.
Six years of distance stretched across a map. I was in the Midwest living my ordinary days while you were on the West Coast living yours. Two different worlds, different time zones, different lives. And yet somehow, our paths kept circling back to each other like we were caught in the same quiet orbit.
For six years, your name lighting up my phone never got old.
You were my good morning texts.
My sweet dreams before bed.
The one person I could talk to all day and still not feel ready to say goodbye.
Some people drain you after a while. With you, conversation never did. It was easy. Playful. Sharp. We could trade jokes back and forth for hours, and you could take them just as well as you gave them. Around you I never had to shrink my personality. I could be loud, ridiculous, sarcastic, and entirely myself.
And somehow you always matched my energy.
You had this quiet way of looking at me that made me feel like I was the most beautiful thing in the room. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just the way your eyes settled on me like there wasnβt anyone else worth noticing.
You were also the man who always made sure I never made a fool of myself in public. If a moment started getting awkward, youβd step in without anyone really noticingβredirect the conversation, crack a joke, smooth everything over before embarrassment ever had the chance to land. You protected me in subtle ways, like the world needed to behave a little better when I was standing next to you.
I still remember our first kiss.
You were working a show that night. The venue was emptying out, music still humming faintly through the walls. You had to get into the van soon, but before you left, you kept looking around like you were searching for someone.
Then you saw me walking outside.
The way you said my name in that moment still lives somewhere deep in my chest. Like you couldnβt leave without finding me first. Like the night wouldnβt have been finished until you said goodbye.
You walked straight over to me, pushed me gently back against the brick wall outside the venue, and kissed me.
To this day, that is the only kiss I can honestly say made my heart stop beating.
Everything went quiet. My knees started to buckle and you wrapped your arms around me tighter like you felt it too, like letting go wasnβt something either of us wanted to do just yet.
For a moment the whole world paused.
Moments like that make it easy to believe in something bigger than what reality eventually becomes.
You always told me not to celebrate your birthday.
Every year youβd say the same thing: donβt make a big deal out of it, donβt do anything special.
And every year I ignored you.
Iβd show up with your favorite things anyway. Little surprises I knew would make you smile even if you tried to pretend you were annoyed.
There was always that tiny smile at the corner of your mouth when you realized what I had done. Youβd shake your head like I hadnβt listened, but you never really hid how much it meant to you.
Like the year I surprised you in Chicago.
When you saw me, you looked at me like your brain couldnβt quite process what your eyes were seeing. Then suddenly you grabbed me, swept me completely off my feet into the biggest hug, laughing as you held me tight before kissing me like you were genuinely happy I had come all that way just to see you.
Another year later. Another birthday.
The year you were sick in St. Louis.
You probably thought that birthday would pass quietly, especially feeling as miserable as you were. But I couldnβt stand the thought of you sitting there alone.
So I showed up again.
I brought all your favorite snacks. I made you a little get-well care package so you wouldnβt forget to take care of yourself the way you always forgot to. Medicine, comfort food, small things I knew would make you feel better even if you tried to act like I was doing too much.
And just like always, you tried to pretend you were annoyed.
But that small smile always gave you away.
Then there was the other night in St. Louis.
We were working a show together and somehow I had ended up being your assistant for the night. You gave me so much crap about it, teasing me nonstop like the absolute little brat you could be sometimes.
But you were so silly about it that I couldnβt even pretend to be mad.
That same night it started snowing.
The roads were getting worse and I was getting ready to drive home anyway. But you wouldnβt hear it.
You literally took my keys and my phone right out of my hands.
Before I could even argue, you had already decided what was happening. You got us a hotel room because you didnβt want me driving in the snow.
And then you did something Iβll never forget.
You called my mom.
You told her not to worry, that you were taking care of me tonight and that I would be home in the morning.
I remember standing there listening to you explain it to her so calmly, like it was the most natural thing in the world for you to be the person making sure I was safe.
Thereβs another memory that still makes me smile.
That day on the streets of Chicago when a stranger looked at us and said, βYouβve got a beautiful wife. Youβre a lucky man.β
You didnβt laugh it off.
You didnβt correct him.
You wrapped your arm around me and played along like pretending to be my husband came naturally to you. For a moment the world believed that story.
And if Iβm honestβ¦ part of me believed it too.
Thank you for letting me see the parts of you that most people probably never noticed.
The way your face would light up when you talked about something you were passionate about. The quiet excitement in your voice when an idea grabbed hold of you. The way your expression softened when someone did something kind for you.
Especially the moments when you thought no one was watching.
Those moments felt honest.
And maybe thatβs why letting go of you was never simple. Because I didnβt just fall for the man you showed the world.
I fell for the man you were in those quiet seconds when your guard slipped.
But love canβt live forever in moments.
It canβt grow in almosts, in maybes, in pieces of something that never fully becomes real.
The truth is, somewhere along those six years, I loved you more honestly than you ever loved me.
You kept me close when it was convenient. You told me you loved me, but you could never quite be honest about how you truly felt. I stayed longer than I should have because the moments we shared felt too real to walk away from.
Six years is a long time to hold onto someone who never fully chose you.
Still, I donβt regret loving you.
Because for six years you were the man whose name could light up my phone and make my whole day feel brighter. The man who could make me laugh until my stomach hurt. The man who made sure I never embarrassed myself in public.
The man who lifted me off my feet in Chicago.
The man who stole my keys during a snowstorm just to make sure I got home safe the next morning.
The man who kissed me against a brick wall in a way that made the whole world stop.
But you were also the man I eventually had to let go.
And the hardest part was never losing you.
The hardest part was letting go of the life I thought we might have someday.
So wherever life has taken you now, I hope itβs kind to you.
I hope someone surprises you on your birthday again.
I hope she reminds you to take care of yourself when youβre sick.
I hope she laughs at your jokes and gives them right back to you.
I hope she kisses you in a way that makes the whole world go quiet.
And if she ever loves you the way I didβ
I hope this time you recognize it.
Because once, for six years, someone loved you in a way that would have never left.
And that someone was me.

















