On lingering dreams, unanswered messages, and the haunting beauty of almost.
There’s a certain ache I can’t quite name—but I know exactly where it lives.
It’s in the draft I never finished.
In the voicemail I never returned.
In the plane ticket I never bought, though I looked at it three times.
There’s something oddly beautiful about the things we almost do. The conversations we rehearse but never say. The lives we brush against but don’t live. They stay with us—not like regrets, not exactly—but like echo chambers. Little pockets of what-if that hum quietly beneath everything else.
I’ve been told to “just let things go.”
But some things don’t want to be let go. They want to sit with you, pull up a chair at the table, and remind you that not every door has to be shut with finality. Some just drift open forever.
I wrote The Art of Being Almost during a time when I didn’t know what I wanted—but I knew it wasn’t this. It’s a book stitched together from half-decisions and missed chances. It doesn’t resolve, and it doesn’t try to. That was the point.
“Some stories don’t end. They just stop being told.”
Unfinished things carry a tenderness that finished ones don’t.
They hold space.
They haunt gently.
They remind us that not every conclusion is a closure—and not every pause is failure.
So if you’re holding something half-done, half-healed, or half-hoped for, you’re not alone.
Some things aren’t meant to be completed.
Some things are just meant to be felt.
