The Door That Never Opened

They told me there were two doors. One led back to you. To every almost, every unfinished sentence, every version of us that never got the chance to exist. The other promised a future, one where I simply kept walking. Everyone said, "Choose." But no one asked what if I couldn't? So I sat before your door. Days became seasons. Seasons forgot my name. I rested my head against cold wood, imagining laughter on the other side. Sometimes I thought I heard footsteps. Sometimes I convinced myself the handle had moved. Sometimes I believed if I loved you quietly enough, the door would mistake me for someone meant to enter. I wasn't waiting to rewrite the past. I only wanted one small crack. Just enough to peek inside. To see the life we never lived. To know whether it would have been as beautiful as I had imagined. But doors that are meant to open don't ask you to spend years proving you're worthy. One day, without ceremony, I realized the silence was my answer. Not because you were cruel. Not because I stopped loving you. Simply because some doors are never ours to walk through. For a while, I thought my only choice was the second door. To leave. To forget. To become someone who had never loved you. But that felt like another lie. So I built my own. Not a door back to you. Not a door away from you. A door that led through me. A place where your name could exist without becoming a prayer. Where memories could rest without asking to be relived. Where love didn't have to disappear to stop hurting. I still love the person I once found behind that unopened door. Just differently. Like sunlight remembered after sunset. Still real. Just no longer asking the night to become day again.