What I Hoped You Were

I hoped you were more than the moments

you gave me.

I hoped you were the kind who stayed a little longer,

not because I asked,

but because leaving wasn't always the easier choice.

I hoped your silence was never indifference,

just life being loud,

and that somewhere beneath it you were still thinking of me.

I hoped you were intentional,

the kind of person who didn't leave people guessing where they stood.

I hoped your words carried the same weight

as your actions,

that when you said you cared,

I wouldn't have to search for proof in between

the lines.

I hoped you were someone I could laugh with

without later wondering if I had imagined

the closeness.

Someone who could say,

“I want you here,” and mean it.

Someone who wouldn't make affection feel like a puzzle I had to solve.

The hardest part is not that you disappointed me,

but that I had quietly built a version of you from every beautiful moment.

I filled in the gaps with possibilities.

I turned your kindness into intention,

your attention into affection,

your presence into promise.

And perhaps you never asked me to do any of that.

Perhaps you were simply being yourself.

Still,

I wish you had been the person I hoped you were.

Not perfect.

Not constantly available.

Not someone without flaws.

Just someone whose presence didn't leave me

questioning my place.

Someone who chose me as clearly as I was beginning to choose you.