After sending that message and deleting the chat, I didn't feel dramatic.
I didn't cry. I didn't spiral.
I just sat there thinking.
"If I can't tell him… then what do I do with these feelings?"
Because they weren't gone.
They were quieter, yes.
But they still existed in small corners of me.
And I knew something clearly that night—
I would never tell him in real life.
Even if by some miracle I stood in front of him one day, I wouldn't say any of it.
Because it wasn't meant for him.
It was mine.
So instead of opening his profile again, I opened my notes app.
And I started writing.
Not about how perfect he was.
Not about destiny.
Not about love.
I wrote about the first reel.
About being in 7th or 8th grade and replaying a clip too many times.
About calculating concert prices and laughing at myself.
About pretending I didn't care when my heart paused.
About quitting.
About relapsing.
About typing a message I knew he'd never read.
I wrote everything I had never said out loud.
And something strange happened.
The more I wrote, the lighter it felt.
Because once emotions turn into words, they stop feeling chaotic.
They become structured.
Understandable.
Almost… manageable.
I realized something important while writing.
Maybe I don't need him to read this.
Maybe I just need someone to understand it.
Maybe I just need to prove to myself that what I felt wasn't stupid.
It was human.
I don't love him.
Not in the way the internet defines love.
But a small selfish part of me once wished he was mine.
And admitting that doesn't make me weak.
It makes me honest.
For the first time, I didn't feel like I was trying to erase the phase.
I was documenting it.
Honoring it.
Turning it into something that exists outside my head.
And maybe that's the real closure.
Not forcing yourself to stop feeling.
Not pretending it never mattered.
But saying—
"It mattered once. And that's okay."
I don't know if these words will ever reach him.
Probably not.
But maybe they'll reach someone else.
Maybe they'll reach a girl who thinks she's crazy for still pausing when a familiar face appears on her screen.
And maybe she'll realize she's not crazy.
She's just growing.
That night, I didn't scroll.
I didn't search his name.
I didn't feel restless.
I just wrote.
And for the first time in a long time—
That felt enough.