It’s muscle memory now.
That flick of the thumb.
That glance at the screen like maybe—just maybe—
today’s the day they remember.

You don’t even expect a full conversation.
Just a “Hey.”
Just a sign that they haven’t erased you completely.
That you meant something.
That what you shared didn’t just vanish the second they turned away.

But your phone stays quiet.
And you pretend you didn’t just check it again.
For the twelfth time before noon.

They’ve moved on.
You’ve seen the posts.
The pictures.
The soft smiles meant for someone new.
The same ones they used to give you,
when it felt like you were building something real.

Now they’re building it with someone else.

And you—
you’re still dancing with the ghost of almost.

Almost forever.
Almost enough.
Almost chosen.

You keep rewriting the past in your head,
trying to find the version where they stay.
Where they realize.
Where they turn back around and say,
“I made a mistake.”

But they don’t.
And deep down, you know they won’t.

So you dress your hope in silence.
You hide your ache in logic.
You tell yourself it’s over,
but your fingers still unlock the screen
like maybe love has good timing this time.

They let go.
Clean.
Final.

You?
You’re still holding the last message like a relic.
Still scrolling through old photos like proof of your worth.
Still wondering if they ever look back.

They probably don’t.

But you do.