She was a beautiful almost, the kind that stays in your throat long after her name is gone. I had her in the quiet moments— in the way her hand brushed mine and didn’t move away right away, in the way her smile softened like she was about to stay. But almost is a cruel distance. It’s close enough to taste, far enough to lose. We were one conversation from forever, one brave word from something real, one second from the life I still imagine at night. Now she lives in the space between what happened and what should have. And I carry her like unfinished music— still playing, never arriving. She was never mine, but God… she was almost.