You still say it—
“Maybe someday.”
Like it’s a life raft.
Like if you say it enough times,
the dream will hear you and circle back.

But you know the truth.

Someday died quietly last year.
No big moment.
No obvious end.
Just a slow fading
until one day you looked up
and realized you’d stopped believing in it.

You didn’t tell anyone.
You still smile when they say,
“You’ve got time.”
Still nod when they talk about doors opening,
about things falling into place,
about the universe having a plan.

But inside, you know—
you buried it.

That dream.
That version of your life that felt close enough to touch
if only you worked harder, waited longer, held on tighter.

It’s gone.
And no one noticed but you.

There’s no funeral for abandoned dreams.
No sympathy cards for the version of you that didn’t make it.
Just a slow, aching silence
where hope used to sit.

You still go through the motions.
Still imagine versions of the future.
But they’re blurrier now.
Safer.
Smaller.

Because once you lose a someday,
you stop building castles.
You start building walls.

You say “maybe” out loud
because it hurts too much to say never.

But in your heart,
you already know—
the door closed.
The stars moved.
And that dream isn’t coming back.