Maybe I Should’ve Slept Instead That Night

Love Left Unsaid

I moved to a new country chasing dreams, but all I found at first was silence. Empty streets, foreign faces, and loneliness that echoed through my small apartment. I had no one. No familiar language, no comforting hug, no friend to say “you’ll be okay.” Just me — trying to survive.

Eventually, I got a part-time job at a small grocery store near my place. It was quiet, manageable. A routine. But with summer break approaching and time suddenly abundant, I took another job — this time at Walmart. Big, intimidating, overwhelming Walmart. I had never seen a place so enormous, so loud, so full of strangers. I was terrified.

I kept my head down. I was that shy girl who clocked in and out without speaking much. But then I saw him. A manager at the front desk — a little older, impossibly confident. He carried himself with an ease I envied. The way he handled customers, smiled at coworkers, joked, solved problems — he was magnetic. People gravitated toward him. I watched from afar. I admired him, respected him. I never said it aloud, but something about him made me feel safe in a world that felt anything but.

Then one quiet Sunday morning, he talked to me.

He asked about my studies, my city, how I was finding this strange land. And just like that — in a few minutes — he made me feel like I belonged. That conversation, simple and short, planted something in me. A spark. That day, my harmless admiration turned into a crush — a soft, lingering, aching crush.

I didn’t have the courage to tell him. I told my best friend back home, and she laughed, told me to go for it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even hold a proper conversation without panicking. I watched from a distance, cherishing the moments he passed by or smiled in my direction. I lived off crumbs.

Then one day, he messaged me — work-related, asking if I could cover a shift. Just work. But it was the first message. My heart fluttered like it had wings. It was stupid, maybe, but I felt seen. Important. Special.

Weeks passed. Our talks grew more frequent. At least at work. Then one day, he asked me if I could help him get a second job — at the grocery store I originally worked at. I helped him, of course. And now, we were working together at both jobs. The universe, I thought, was giving me a sign.

My coworkers noticed. The way my eyes lit up when he entered the room. The soft smile I couldn’t hide when he spoke to me. They teased me, and I brushed it off, but they were right. I was falling — hard.

He became my friend. A real one. We talked more. Laughed. He started remembering the little things I liked. Wished me happy birthday. Sent me memes. Replied to my stories with inside jokes. It was more than friendship. It felt like more. But we never said it. He never said it.

Then, on a chilly February 15th evening, I don’t know what came over me — maybe it was the cold, maybe the loneliness, or maybe I just couldn’t hold it in anymore — I confessed. Indirectly. Carefully. But enough for him to know.

He didn’t reply.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling, eyes burning, stomach twisted in fear and hope and regret. Morning came and his reply said: “I don’t know what to say right now. We’ll talk when we see each other.”

Two days later, we were alone at work. I avoided his eyes, fumbling, panicking inside. He offered to drop me home, and I let him. But he didn’t bring it up. And I didn’t have the strength to ask. So, we pretended. Like nothing had happened.

Months passed in that silence. But the pain stayed. The confusion, the “what ifs,” the late-night crying into pillows. Then one day, I asked. I needed to know. “Just tell me what you feel. I’m not forcing anything. I just need to move on.”

He told me about his past. About two other girls who had liked him — one in school, and one from Walmart. The second one was someone I knew. A friend. That hurt. He said his family was strict. That he didn’t want to start something he couldn’t finish. That he didn’t believe in temporary love.

But still — he didn’t walk away. And neither did I.

We carried on, somewhere between friendship and something almost more. He’d send posts that mirrored mine. He remembered my favorites. He cared — just enough to keep me hoping, but never enough to give it a name.

I quit Walmart. He quit the grocery store. We barely saw each other. But we still texted — sometimes. Fewer and fewer. Until the silence between us grew loud again. My friends begged me to let go. “He’s not giving what you’re giving,” they said. And I defended him. Every time.

One night, in a moment of heartbreak and overthinking, I called him. I cried. I asked him again, “Why won’t you just say something?” But he never did. I think he didn’t want to hurt me. So instead, he left me hanging.

Until one day — out of nowhere — he texted: “It won’t work. My family won’t agree. We should end this.”

I felt my heart break in real time.

I typed back, “Do you have any idea how I feel?”

He said, “That’s why I didn’t say it before. I knew it would hurt you.”

I said okay.

And that was it. Years of silent love, of one-sided hope, of waiting — ended in a text. I knew it was coming. But when it came, I shattered.

I cried like I never had before. Not because I lost a relationship — but because I lost the dream of one. The version of us that only existed in my head. The imagined future where I introduced him to my parents, where we shared a home, where he was mine.

Weeks passed. Months. I tried to move on. And I did — slowly, painfully.

Then, two years later, after visa issues and heartbreak upon heartbreak, I had to return home. I was already at my lowest. Then one day, I saw a post. He was engaged.

I congratulated him. Typed it like I meant it. But that night, I wept. Not out of jealousy — but because she got what I fought for. What I begged for. What I would’ve crossed oceans for. And she didn’t even have to try.

Life is cruel that way. It gives your happy ending to someone else.

And now, I’m here. In my childhood room. The same girl who once crossed countries with hope. The same girl who loved a boy so deeply, she forgot to love herself.

But I’m healing. Day by day.

Because maybe love isn’t always about endings. Maybe it’s about learning when to let go.

I don’t regret you. But sometimes, on the nights when I’m totally broken, I think… maybe I should’ve just slept early that day instead of sharing my feelings. Maybe I should’ve kept it all at that one “hi” and walked away. Or maybe… maybe you should’ve never come into my life at all.

But whatever it was — it was special to me. Pure. I’ve never felt that way since.

Maybe in some other universe, we are together. Maybe there, you are mine.

So until then… goodbye.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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