The Ache of Almost

I wondered how I could give up hope.

Give it away like one would a flower. Though it wouldn’t be a gift. It would be an escape.

An escape from the almost. The maybes. The moments my heart beat faster and opened wider, believing—for just a breath—that maybe this one would meet me where I am.

No one told me how much that would hurt.

No one warned me about the mourning that follows, the grief that isn’t for a relationship, but for the possibility. For the version of the story I was beginning to believe.

And maybe most of all, the mourning for the version of me who still hoped it would be a different story.

Almost looked like green flags that never became a yes.
Like presence without follow-through.
Like warmth that wouldn’t stay.

Of being close to being met. Of tasting potential and having to spit it out, because it didn’t grow into promise. Because I told myself I wouldn’t swallow that poison again and try to convince myself it was ambrosia.

But this time, I’m holding the pain gently. It feels sacred. It feels more mine. Like growth and awareness and self-love had a baby.

And that means something.

It means my heart is still soft. Still daring. Still hungry for connection.
It means I haven’t closed.

I keep reminding myself that this isn’t weakness, it’s bravery.

This ache is the ache of almost.

That space between the pattern that no longer works and the love that is still on its way. Between who I used to be and who I’m becoming.

So maybe I’ll hold onto this flower of hope a little longer.
Tuck it away. Care for it gently.

I’m not bargaining with the ache anymore.
Not rewriting red flags.
Not pretending something is enough just because I wanted it to be.

Trust that I am being refined into someone who will not settle for less than mutual, reciprocal, grounded, soul-sparking connection.

This ache I feel—it’s the price of my awakening.

It won’t last forever. But it will shape the version of me who chooses differently.

Who is choosing differently.

And she—that version—is almost here.

She is here.

Always,

Your Trusted Friend ❤