Tequila and Tea

There’s a special kind of grief that doesn’t come with closure.
No big breakup. No dramatic ending.
Just an ache. A haunting. A lingering “what if” in the middle of the night.

Because sometimes… you miss someone who was never really there.

Not in the way you needed.
Not in the way you dreamed.
Not in the way you let yourself believe.

Maybe it started with electric texts.
Late night conversations that felt like confessions.
He saw you—or said he did.
And you started to hope that maybe, this time, you wouldn’t have to explain your tenderness, translate your boundaries, or beg to be understood.

You started building a future with fragments.
His playlist.
That one quote he sent that felt like fate.
The way he said your name, like it meant something.

And even though your time together was short, it was charged.
There was energy. Chemistry. Possibility.
Which can be even harder to let go of than a real relationship—because when nothing solid ever formed, nothing ever fully broke.

You weren’t mourning a man.
You were mourning the potential.
The version of him you created in your mind.
The softness you gave. The way you showed up.
You were mourning you, in that moment—how open you let yourself be.

And the hardest part?
You can’t really explain the grief to anyone.
Because on paper, there’s nothing to point to.
No relationship status to change. No dramatic breakup to process.
Just a wound where a “maybe” used to be.

But here’s what’s true:
Missing someone who was never fully there is still real.
Because you were.
You showed up. You felt it. You hoped.
And that hope was holy.

So cry if you need to.
Write the unsent texts.
Burn the journal page.
Let your body grieve the love it almost received.

And then… bless the version of you that tried.
That woman deserves to be held. By you. By someone who stays.
By a love that doesn’t just flash like lightning—but warms like the sun.