It was always “soon.”
“Let’s catch up soon.”
“Let’s grab a drink, a call, a weekend.”
You both meant it.
But life kept moving—faster, louder, harder to pause.

And now?

Now the only place you visit them
is a memorial page that hasn’t changed
since the day everything did.

Same photo.
Same quotes.
Same well-meaning condolences from people
who knew of them,
but not the way you did.

You scroll through it sometimes
like you’re looking for an update—
as if grief has a comment section.
As if they might still reply.

But they don’t.
And you never got to say all the things you were saving.
You never told them that you missed who you both were
before everything got so far away.
You never told them that their laugh still rings in your ears
when you’re alone and the room gets too quiet.

You had time.
So you thought.
Time to catch up.
To check in.
To remind each other that you still mattered—
that nothing had changed, not really.

But everything changed.
And now there’s no message to send.
No call to make.
Just a frozen page,
and a heart full of what-ifs.

You tell them things now
when no one’s listening.
Little things.
Things you should’ve said when they were still here.
When “soon” was still possible.