Prologue

This is for the readers who...

...have loved quietly, from the sidelines.

...have shared thousands of messages, but never held hands.

...have felt seen by someone who was never theirs.

...have stayed up late for a "goodnight" that meant more than it should.

...have let go of someone not because they stopped caring—

but because caring too much started to hurt.

This is for those who believe that not all great love stories are romantic.

Some are built on presence, not passion.

Some are soft. Slow. Unnamed.

Some end before they begin.

This is for those who were almost chosen. Almost loved. Almost, Always.

This is not a love story. I don't consider it as one.

Not in the way people expect love stories to go.

There were no late-night phone calls with whispered "I love yous,"

No countdowns to the day we'd finally meet.

There was no kiss, no confession, no fireworks.

But there was us.

And we—

We were something.

I could never quite explain it to anyone.

He wasn't mine. Not really.

But he knew me in a way no one else did.

The way I type when I'm pretending to be okay.

The way my thoughts unravel when I'm afraid to say too much.

The way I hesitate when I care too deeply but don't know how to show it.

He never made me say things out loud.

And somehow, I always said everything anyway.

I think we both knew, even in silence, that we were walking a line.

That if either of us ever crossed it, we'd lose the delicate thing we had.

So we stayed still. Careful.

I was content being his almost.

Until the day he messaged me—

And broke the rules.

"There's something I need to tell you before it's too late..."