Write A Short Piece From The Perspective Of Someone Watching Their “Almost Love” From Afar: The Ache of an Almost Love (Told From Afar)

I see him before he sees me. He always moves through the room like he doesn’t know anyone’s paying attention. Like he’s blissfully unaware that his presence changes the air, shifts its weight, rearranges the edges of people’s thoughts.

Especially mine.

I stay in the corner, pretending to read a menu I haven't actually processed in ten minutes. My throat tightens when he lifts his head and gives someone else that soft, crooked smile—the one he’s given me exactly twice, both times by accident.

He's close enough that I could call out his name, close enough that I could step forward and bridge the stupid, fragile gap between us. But I stay here instead.Half-hidden.Half-hopeful.Half-foolish.

He’s my almost. The not-quite.The story that started but never crossed the line into beginning.

We met months ago, both of us orbiting the same friend group, always finding ourselves near each other in ways I still haven’t stopped analyzing. He laughed at my jokes.I noticed when his hand brushed mine. We danced around something invisible but unmistakable.

And then—life happened. Schedules.Silence.The slow fade of “maybe” turning into “probably not.”

But I still look for him when I enter a room. I still feel that tiny jump in my chest when I spot his familiar posture, the way he pushes hair off his forehead, the way he listens with his whole body when someone talks.

Tonight, he’s leaning against the bar, laughing at something a girl beside him said. It’s not jealousy that hits me—not really. It’s longing.

The kind that settles deep, quiet, persistent.The kind that reminds me I never actually tried. Never said the thing I wanted to say. Never risked turning “almost” into “something.”

He turns slightly, and for a heartbeat, he faces my direction. I freeze. He scans the crowd, absently, unbothered.

His eyes drift right past me.

A breath leaves my chest—something between relief and ache.

I wonder if he ever thinks about me. I wonder if he ever feels that little shift in the room and knows it’s because I’m near. I wonder if he remembers the night we talked until the sky started to pale, both of us too tired to hide the softness in our voices.

Maybe he does.

Maybe he doesn’t.

But here’s the truth I hate admitting:

Even if nothing ever happens…Even if I stay a stranger with a heartbeat too loud for my own good…Even if our story never unfolds past this unspoken maybe…

I’ll still look up when he walks into the room.

I’ll still watch the way he moves through the world like he doesn’t know he’s important.

And I’ll still wonder—with a mix of hope and heartbreak—what we could’ve been if one of us had been just a little braver.

B.A.R.