Chapter Three: The Ache of Almost

This is Mira’s story—part fiction, part reflection, wholly honest.
(Each chapter will end with a note from her writing, signed as your trusted friend.)

Mira’s Story: The Ache of Almost
For the almosts that hollow and hold. Proof that you’re still willing to hope.

The trip wasn’t meant to be anything profound. Just a birthday getaway for a friend, planned months earlier. But Mira’s own birthday landed the day before she returned, tucked quietly into the end of the trip like a ribbon on something she wasn’t sure she wanted to open.

Nico showed up in the softest ways, the kind that made her feel safe, yet still free. He sent her off with a simple ‘travel safe. ‘ She responded with warmth and a passing thought: If we’d met sooner, you’d be coming with me.

She didn’t send him tons of photos or updates, though she wanted to. She caught herself reaching for her phone often, thinking: He’d love this. A burst of laughter with her friends. A sky so soft it begged to be shared. A thought she didn’t quite know how to hold alone.

But she didn’t send any of it. Not because she didn’t care, but because she was learning to leave space. She let the absence do what it would.

Space for herself. Space for the moment. Space for someone to meet her without being summoned.

She stayed soft. Stayed open. Didn’t write a story in her head. She just listened to the one that was unfolding.

There was a steadiness in her, now. Not in him, in her. She could feel it when she didn’t reach out just to fill space. When she let the moment be enough.

Then came his voice message. The day before her birthday.

“I’ve been thinking about you. I hope you’re having the best time. I can’t wait to have our third date when you’re back. And to taste your lips again. I still keep thinking I can smell you.”

She listened to it three times. Smiled like she was seventeen. Saved it.

Still, something in her paused. Not with dread, just… awareness. It was everything, and not enough. That recording felt like a promise, and she no longer confused words for anchors.

And then she did something small. She opened her voice notes, pressed record, and whispered back.

I’m smiling so hard right now. I can’t wait to see you too. And collect that kiss.

She didn’t rehearse it. Didn’t try to sound more composed than she was. She let herself respond in real-time, something she hadn’t always felt safe doing. Something she was relearning.

No response.

A few days passed. She got home. He messaged asking if she’d made it back. She replied yes, said she was looking forward to their date.

She followed up once, light, warm. No pressure.

He asked when she was free. She told him.

And then, nothing.

Until finally:

Nico: “Hey… I’m sorry I’ve been off the map. I honestly thought you ghosted me—I didn’t see your reply until yesterday. And once I thought that, I shut down. I’ve been in my head, spiraling a little. I keep thinking I’m not going to be what you’re looking for.

I’ve missed you, but I haven’t known how to show up. Reaching out now because I need to say something. I don’t want to disappear. I just haven’t been okay. I hope this doesn’t feel dramatic—it’s just the truth. I hope you’re doing well.”

Mira: “I definitely didn’t ghost you. I’m sorry you thought I did! It’s so easy to miss a text… I was over here going back and forth on whether I should gently nudge you or not. I really appreciate you sharing how you’ve been feeling. I know that kind of honesty isn’t always easy. I totally have a crush on you, and I’m not expecting perfection—just honesty. We’re all figuring things out as we go. I’m here, and I’d still love to see where this might lead if it feels right for you too.”

Nico: “This was such a kind and nurturing message. Beyond that, I want to see where this goes too. Again, I’m sorry about the last couple of days. Honestly didn’t see your message and only replying just now. I didn’t say thank you. Thank you. I’m free tonight and tomorrow night and have the entire week off. I definitely want to see you. Kind of want to see you now, as petulant as that is. I’ll see you whenever works best for you.”

Mira: “You saying that made me smile… I’d love to see you too. I’ve got plans with my daughter to make pizza tonight, but I’m free tomorrow. How about we finally get the vegan mac and cheese I’ve been raving about? Say 6:00?”

Nico: “I’ll see you then!”

The next morning, Mira messaged him: “Excited to see you tonight! Can’t wait for you to try my favorite little spot.”

She was in the middle of choosing what earrings to wear when his name lit up her phone. Something in her dropped before she even opened the message.

A few minutes later, his response:

“I think you’re amazing. I’ve just realized I’m not ready for a relationship right now, and I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”

She scanned it again, slowing this time. The kiss. The softness. The voice note. The plans.

Something slipped inside her. Not pain. Not even shock. Just… an unthreading.

He didn’t ghost, but right when it could have become something, he wasn’t ready. He was deep but, ultimately, uncertain.

It wasn’t affection. It was momentum. Plans wrapped in warmth. Mira let herself believe that she could hold onto something more than hope this time.

She didn’t say any of this, though.

Mira: “Thank you for telling me. That means a lot. I wish you clarity and healing in whatever season you’re in. Truly.”

She meant it. Every word.

But even after sending it, her heart tugged. Not out of desperation, but knowing. A deep, intuitive pull that told her he was spiraling, and she had something left to say.

Mira: “Hey Nico, I’ve been thinking about everything, and I just want to say this with kindness and clarity. I know connection can stir up all kinds of feelings, especially if we’ve been hurt or aren’t totally sure we’re ready.

I’ve wondered if maybe my pace or giving you space to lead might’ve left you feeling unsure or anxious about where I stood. That was never my intention. I genuinely liked getting to know you.

If that space felt like distance or stirred something for you, I just want to say I get it. And I’m still really grateful for the spark and the honesty we shared.”

She didn’t send it to fix things. She didn’t send it to reopen a door. She sent it to close her own gently. She didn’t expect anything back. And for once, she didn’t need it. She had learned something about pacing, about presence, about herself.

She’d wanted to be met, not chased. To be held, not handled. And while it hadn’t lasted, she’d stayed honest. That had to mean something.

She sent it because something inside her deserved the dignity of being fully expressed.

Still, that night she cried. Not because he was gone. But because something beautiful had ended before it had the chance to become. She curled into the corner of her bed, holding a silence that felt heavier than goodbye. But this time, she didn’t fill it. She let it echo. And in that quiet, she stayed with herself, because almosts aren’t mistakes.

They’re reminders.

---

Letters from The Clever Confidante: “The Ache of Almost”
The mourning of potential, the courage of hope

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 ♥

If you’ve ever grieved the ending of something that never really began, I’d love to hear your story too.
(Leave it in the comments, or just exhale it quietly to yourself. That counts, too.)

☁️ New here? You can start Mira’s Story from the beginning with Chapter Zero.

➡️✨ Continue Mira’s Story with Chapter 4: After the Almost

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