Almost Us

We mapped our mornings—
side by side on the highway,
coffee lids steaming,
windows cracked just enough
to let in the buzz of what might be.

Lesson plans whispered between yawns,
matching lanyards imagined,
hallway glances mid-bell-ring,
your laughter echoing down
a corridor we'd claim together.

Then—
the call.
A pause.
Not us.

The silence after was louder
than the school bell.
I stared at the floor tiles,
heart stuttering
like a misfired engine.
You looked at me
as if you'd broken something
you could never replace.

"I'm sorry,"
you said—
like you were the reason
they didn’t choose me.

We didn’t speak for an hour.
I watched your hands twist in your lap,
your shoulders fold in.
And I hated how
you made it your fault.

That night,
my pillow knew everything.
Even the parts I couldn’t say out loud.

But morning came,
and with it,
light seeping through blinds
like forgiveness.

Later,
a knock—
soft, cautious,
like possibility clearing its throat.

A new offer.
Another school.
Not us—but maybe me.

My chest stirred.
Something like hope.
Something like beginning again.