Sometimes I wonder about the stories that never were, the chances we didn’t take. The ones that seduced us and kept around us for a while and we decided to ignore in the end. Out of laziness, indecision, fear or something else.
"Would’ve been" doesn’t exist, so they say. It only exist in our minds, torturing us whenever we let allow. It goes around in phantasy like parallel stories that we like feeding with other unfulfilled desires.
Last time I fell in love, the "would’ve been" chased me for a whole year. I didn’t tell him I had fell in love until I saw him again.
— I've always been in love with you.
— And me with you — he replied.
The story is quite long and context is fundamental. This text falls too short for it. But somehow I said that to him and he appeared to be surprised. It was an ambiguous rejection which leaned against the complicated scenario of being together. Because for a stubborn woman in love, the ambiguity of a rejection implies a tiny but actual possibility of a mutual love.
And so, new "would’ve beens" for my head.
But that’s not important anymore, after coming out like that, the story that never was, it was indeed. And putting the romanticism a little bit aside, it always was.
Photo by Martin Canova