Among the many pages that make up my life, you were the story that passed through but was never fully written. We met in a moment that felt like it meant something, even if it had no name. Between laughter and quiet conversations, I thought maybe this was the beginning of something real. But some stories exist only to be felt, not to be kept. I did not love you in a way that gave me any right to. I only loved you the way people love what they cannot own—quietly, carefully, and from a distance. You were never mine, and I knew that from the beginning, yet I stayed in the feeling a little too long. Sometimes, the hardest goodbye is to something that never truly began. There were days when I imagined a future that had no proof it would ever happen— plans we never talked about, dreams that only I built. You became a “what if” I carried in silence. You were not my person, but you were my moment.