There are moments in life when someone enters your world and, without warning, everything feels a little lighter, a little more possible. You don’t plan to fall — but you do.
Some stories never find a home in reality — they live instead in the soft, aching folds of memory.
The Memory of a Maybe is a reflection on loving someone who almost chose you, almost stayed, almost built a life with you.It’s a love letter to the almosts, the could-have-beens, and the fragile hope that taught me how strong a heart can be even after it breaks. This is for anyone who has ever loved deeply, bravely, and had to let go.
I had given up on love when you came along,
a dream I folded neatly and tucked away —
one of those wild hopes I no longer dared to touch.
I first reached out half as a joke, half in hope,
pitching you an idea to invest in my little gift shop,
a glimmer of survival and ambition
wrapped in brown paper dreams.
But you surprised me.
You said yes to meeting —
and not just anywhere, but somewhere special,
somewhere with fine wine,
and roasted chicken — my favorite —
a small kindness,
a gesture so simple yet so rare
it cracked the armor I had worn for too long.
That night, laughter curled between us
like warm smoke rising into a velvet sky.
I saw something in you —
an ambition, a hunger for life,
an intention that mirrored the fire
I had almost let die in myself.
You made me want to build again,
to dream, to become.
Maybe I was naive.
Maybe desperate.
Maybe just human,
starving for someone to see me
and stay.
You made promises;
I believed them,
because the truth is —
I wanted to.
I forgave the half-truths,
the inconsistencies,
because by then,
I was already falling.
You made it so easy to talk.
Your humor unspooled my tension,
your voice became a place I could rest.
You showed me a glimpse of a life
I had thought was reserved for someone else —
a life where dreams were real,
where success was possible,
where love was not a battlefield.
We built things together,
tiny projects stitched with hope.
And for the first time in a long time,
someone saw me.
Not just the good —
but the raw, unfinished, trembling me.
You said thank you when no one else noticed.
You looked at my work and called it valuable.
You made me feel worthy,
not because I had to prove it,
but because I simply was.
I loved the way your eyes sparkled
when you spoke about your dreams —
that boyish wonder still alive inside a man,
untamed, unashamed.
You opened your world to me —
stories of your past, your victories,
your wounds still healing.
You were strong and playful,
a paradox I wanted to study forever.
Even my child,
who clung so tightly to caution,
smiled at you.
Something in you felt safe,
familiar,
good.
You were a gentleman —
the kind I feared didn’t exist anymore.
You were passionate, hungry for growth,
dressed sharply, ambition in your walk,
elegance stitched into your suits.
You made money not just for yourself,
but thought of me too,
always considering how to lift us both.
You found ways to help,
ways to support —
and you never asked for repayment.
I loved you for that.
I loved you for so many things:
for the way you listened,
how you took my stubbornness
and responded not with anger,
but understanding.
For the way you cradled my broken dreams
and dared me to believe again.
You made me soft again.
You peeled away the hardness
I had worn like a second skin.
With your touches, your kisses,
your whispered encouragements.
Your hands were strong.
Your hugs were home.
Your kisses were permission to hope.
I loved you for your passion,
for how seriously you took your work,
for how you spoke of helping a thousand street kids —
not as a fantasy,
but as a mission.
I loved you for your relationship with God,
your gratitude,
your discipline,
your love for good food, for beauty,
for creating a life worth living.
I loved you for love of animals,
and how your voice softened
whenever you remembered your pet.
I loved your loyalty to family,
your tenderness with children,
your generosity,
your respect for the sacredness of hard work.
You were thoughtful,
considerate,
and your laughter was the kind
that could dissolve a bad day.
I loved the way you’d say we
when planning projects —
as if you already saw a future
where I belonged.
You read my moods without asking.
You called, even when busy,
just to keep me in the loop.
You considered my advice,
valued my opinion.
You made me feel heard,
important,
loved —
even if, in hindsight,
maybe you never really meant to.
And despite everything —
despite the way you could disappear,
ghost me when it mattered,
force me to beg silently for scraps of affection —
I stayed.
Because for a while,
you made me feel
like maybe love wasn’t just a fairy tale
for other people.
But now I understand.
Now I see.
You only ever saw me as a friend.
A convenient comfort.
A warm voice to call when needed.
And so —
even though it breaks the soft,
fierce, fragile parts of me —
I am learning how to let you go.
Learning how to unlove you
the way you so easily unchose me.
I release you,
with gratitude for the lessons,
for the light you brought briefly into my life.
But to heal,
I must now disappear too.
I must choose myself
over the hope of being chosen.
I wish you everything you dream of —
the success, the homes for children,
the laughter, the love.
I wish you the life you’re building —
even if I will not be part of it.
I walk away,
carrying the sweetness,
the ache,
the impossible beauty of it all.
And when the night falls heavy,
and the loneliness howls,
I will remember:
I once loved something real,
even if it was never meant
to stay.
Not all love stories end with a hand to hold or a forever promise. Some leave behind something even more mysterious: a memory stitched with tenderness and ache — a reminder that to love at all is a kind of victory.
Thank you for reading this piece of my heart. If this poem resonated with you, you may also want to read the next part of the story: Maybe Was Never Enough
Wherever you are in your journey — beginning, middle, or healing — may you always choose yourself first, and may you never forget the beauty of a heart brave enough to love.
