There’s a quiet ache no one really warns you about.
Not the kind that comes from losing.
But the kind that appears when you notice
what never arrived.
You see a life.
A moment.
A version of “this could’ve been.”
And for a second,
you feel the absence.
No memories to grieve.
No ending to mourn.
Just the clear awareness:
this isn’t mine.
And somehow,
that still lands.
People either rush to shut that feeling down,
or they fall straight into it.
But maybe neither is needed.
Maybe this ache isn’t something to escape.
Just something to acknowledge.
Like holding something fragile in your hand —
close enough to feel its weight,
far enough not to let it live in your chest.
You’re allowed to notice what you don’t have.
Allowed to feel it register
without letting it take over.
Love.
Belonging.
Peace.
A steadier life.
Different shapes.
Same moment.
The ache doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful.
And it doesn’t mean you’re stuck.
It just means you saw something
and didn’t lie to yourself about it.
Some things aren’t meant to be carried in the heart.
They’re meant to be held —
felt,
acknowledged,
and kept at a distance.