There’s a quiet ache that settles in my chest when I think about the person I could have been. It’s not her that hurts, but the soft bitterness of the things that happened, the circumstances I never chose. Some moments feel inevitable, and that’s what lingers—the helplessness of not controlling what shapes you, of not knowing who you’ll become once it’s over. It’s like watching from a distance, unable to change a thing. When I picture her, that other version of me, she isn’t haunted by a trembling voice or shaking hands. She isn’t afraid. She connects with others without her heart threatening to shatter when things become real. I mourn her because I know I’m different now. I face new moments with a fragile heart, unsteady hands, and a tightness in my throat that never truly leaves.
Memory feels like a quiet punishment, a gentle yet relentless reminder of all the paths that faded away. Even as the years drift by, a faint voice lingers, whispering of what could have been, what was almost within reach. And perhaps that’s the cruelest part—knowing there’s no way to turn back. I can’t undo what’s been done, can’t silence the echoes of those thoughts. I’m left with nothing but memories, their weight pressing against me, and the ache of what can never be.
If things had turned out differently, maybe I’d be somewhere else by now, maybe even someone else, with different faces around me. Or perhaps the same ones, the ones who drifted away when the distance became too much. Even when I returned, they had already vanished. In that way, memory becomes a quiet kind of torture—a soft, endless wondering of what might have been, if only.
When I think of how things were, I lose a little more of myself. All my memories feel like turning points, quiet moments that shifted something deep inside me. I’ve never really learned how to live with this. Most of the time, I let the pain consume me, and when I feel merciful toward myself, I distract myself to forget. I wish I could go back, change everything, because it feels like I should have had a different story. But this is what I have now, and I have no choice but to accept it.
If I could speak to the person I could have been, I imagine my voice would falter, and my eyes would blur with unspoken grief. I’d gently tell her to hold tight to those small, fleeting moments, to savor them, for they’ll slip away long before she even notices.
There are fragments of her still within me, like faint lights on a distant shore. But I can’t touch her, can’t draw her near. She remains out of reach, like memories, like everything that never came to be.
i, too, grieve the person i could’ve been — i do not know her, never will, but i feel deeply attached to this hypothetical version of me that i do not know yet feel so deeply close to. you illustrated this feeling perfectly and in a beautiful, poetic way. thank you for this <3
"memory becomes a quiet kind of torture—a soft, endless wondering of what might have been, if only"
Daphne!! You are my favorite writer here 😭