All the Versions of You

A haunting reflection on loving someone you've known for years but can never fully reach- an intimate ache for the parts of them that exist beyond your grasp.

We've spoken for years-

a decade of midnights and mornings,

our laughter stitched 

between texts and tired goodnights.

I want to know what your mornings look like

when I'm not in them.

What your life looks like

when I'm not watching.

Who texts you first, 

who makes you laugh so easily

that I'd never stand a chance competing.

Who you are between the silences,

in the soft unguarded hours I'll never see.

You tell me fragnments-

bits and corners of your days,

songs that make you nostalgic,

the name of a street I've never walked with you-

like crumbs dropped from a feast

I was never invited to.

And still, I gather them,

imagining the rest of the meal.

All adding up and sharpening the edges

of everything I don't know.

I think about your other friends,

their names like half-forgotten dreams

I can't quite reach.

The ones whose laughter I can't hear,

whose faces never flash across my screen.

Do they know your half-smile?
Do they make you softer,

or do you guard yourself 

the same way you do with me?

I wonder what you tell them-

if you talk about me

if I sound softer or stranger

in your retelling.

Sometimes I imagine reading your messages-

not to invade, just to understand.

To see how you phrase your care for others,

if you use the same words

you once used for me.

I'd be a cartographer of your affection,

trying to map where I fit in the landscape of your heart.

I think about your voice-

how it would sound saying my name

in a room not meant for me.

Would there be fondness,

or just familiarity?

Would they know who I am when you mention me,

or would I be one of those friends

you describe vaguely,

the kind who's "always around,"
but never close enough to touch.

You've sent me photos, 

shown me around a few times-

little glimpses of your world.

Your room dark from the outside light,

Cups of coffee beside your keyboard

Your reflection in the windows 

I'll never stand behind.

And I stare too long,

memorizing details no one else would notice:

the chips in the corner of your desk,

the way your hands rest just shy of focus,

the looking of anywhere else but me,

the sitting with your knees drawn to your chest.

It feels like love,

though I never let myself call it that.

Because I know the rules of our distance-

how we orbit each other

through cables and time zones.

How I can only hold the version of you

that fits in my phones glow.

And yet,

when you vanish for hours,

my mind fills with the quiet with imagined scenes;

your laughter shared with someone else,

your thoughts elsewhere,

your attention gently drifting to a place where I can't follow.

I tell myself it's just curiousity,

that it's harmless to care too much.

But there's something feverish in the way

I reread your words,

count the minutes between replies,

search for meaning in pauses.

Its a quiet kind of jealousy-

the kind that never speaks,

that builds altars from old messages

and calls it friendship.

There's a quiet hunger in the waiting-

For your next message,

for proof that I still matter.

It's not love, I tell myself,

but I trace your words like scripture,

and it feels an awful lot like worship.

You've been my constant for ten years,

my favorite familiar stranger.

I know your writing, your humor

the rhythm of your sleep,

but not the sound of your footsteps

or the shape of your silence.

And I think what haunts me-

that I love you in outlines,

that I've memorized your shadow,

but never held the light that made it.

I still can't tell if the person I know

is the one who exists-

or just the one who answers me.

-Koii