To all the loves I've lost

P

P was a safe space. We never really dived into deep conversations, but he brought me peace every time we talked.

We met in church; honestly, I can't remember how we started talking. But I know that slowly, I started looking forward to them.

Our only connection was church, but somehow, that felt like enough.

It wasn’t forced, there was no pressure to be anything other than myself. It just flowed beautifully - That’s the best way to describe it.

The end was quite funny in its absurdity, and the only possible explanation was that a greater power was involved.

During a break, I decided to join in on the popular anonymous message trend. I got a message—I can’t recall the exact words, but my reaction is seared into my memory. I had no idea what the message meant or who sent it.

I posted the message, and P replied

"Do you know who sent that?"

"No."

"It was me."

“Oh.”

That was it. We didn’t talk much after that, and the dynamic shifted.

Two years later, I was clearing out my phone gallery when I found that screenshot again—and suddenly, I understood.

P was asking me out.

---

O

Who was he?

When we met, he was a friend of a friend. Now? He’s an acquaintance.

Can you describe him?

Tall, dark, handsome, brilliant. He’s soft-spoken, but there’s no denying the confidence and charisma.

What was your story?

Have you ever met someone and just knew they were the one for you?

Me neither.

The first time I met O, nothing stood out. He was polite but forgettable—a friend of a friend.

The second time, though, something shifted. Have you ever met someone and realized you wanted to experience them forever? That was O for me.

We were at a game night. I don’t remember much of the games, but at some point, when the night was winding down, we ended up on a bed, just talking.

I can't recall the specifics of the conversation, but the memory of his face, and the melody of his voice, has stayed with me. His mind intrigued me. He was so young, yet so principled. He knew exactly what he wanted and had a plan to get it.

I had never experienced anything as sexy as that.

So, what went wrong?

Meeting the right person at the wrong time has to be one of life’s cruellest jokes.

As much as we had a connection, and as much as he was one of the best men I’d ever met, I was at a place in my life where I didn’t think he could give me what I needed. So, I let him go.

Also, a part of me didn’t think I deserved him.

Why?

He was so put together. I was still figuring out who I was while he already had a clear vision for his life. Talking to him made me feel like a fraud, like I had to perform to keep up. It felt like he needed a partner who was more on his frequency. To be honest, I was selfish enough not to care deeply about this.

But more than that, I didn’t think he could offer the vulnerability I craved. Our friends were intertwined, and I didn’t want to be exposed in that way—to feel like my personal life was part of a group conversation. I wanted my partner to be the one person in the world who knew me wholly, the one person who I wouldn’t have to put up walls with. But with O, it felt like our relationship would be an open book to everyone.

And that wasn’t what I wanted.

And you think he wouldn’t have been able to control it?

Yes.

I don’t think it would’ve been intentional, but It still would have happened.

Do you regret it?

No. I never take decisions lightly because I don’t like having regrets, so I was 100% aware of what I was letting go.

If you could go back, would you make the same choice?

Yes.

---

A

There’s art, and then there’s A’s art.

Some people are so gifted that it feels like a crime the whole world isn’t basking in their talent.

That was A.

You know how our parents tell us to go for men with potential, to build with them? Yada, yada, yada.

That was A. From the moment I saw his work, I knew he was destined for greatness.

And who doesn’t want to be associated with greatness? I followed him on every platform I could.

I was a fan of his art long before I knew what he looked like. We never exchanged pictures, just interactions—liking each other’s tweets, retweeting posts, stalking each other’s Instagram stories.

And then one night, he slid into my DMs with a cheeky reply to something I’d posted. I was in a good mood, so I responded, and we started talking. It was soft, and warm, the banter was perfect.

And the next day, we talked again. And the day after that. And the next.

We had slipped into a talking stage without even realizing it.

The best part? It started out as a friendship. It was easy. Casual. We’d check in on each other’s days, and send memes, and eventually, I asked for his WhatsApp number.

"I don’t give my number to Instagram girls, o."

The nerve.

He was mine—just mine. My friends didn’t know, nobody knew. There were no outside opinions or influences. Just me, my feelings, and A. It wasn’t a secret, just private.

I remember when he asked me on a date. Randomly, he said, "Are you dating someone?"

"No."

"Is someone dating you?"

And that led us down a rabbit hole of past situationships.

Our date was simple. We went to ICM, had lunch at The Place, played games, and finished the day with ice cream at the Governor’s Park.

It’s still the best date I’ve ever been on.

We kept talking, and it kept being easy, but we couldn’t find time to meet again. When I was free, he was busy. When he was free, I was busy. Finally, we set a date, and I was promised the best spaghetti in the world.

I had a class that morning, but nothing could dampen my excitement. It took me hours to choose an outfit—it had to be purple, his favourite colour.

I was 30 minutes late to class, but I didn’t care. I was only there for the attendance either way. Once it was over, I started calling.

No answer.

I never leave more than two missed calls except it was an emergency and this counted as one.

Still no answer.

I sent a message on WhatsApp. No reply.

I felt disappointment settling in. I was sad, then angry. Why would he stand me up?

I went back to my room and started watching K-dramas, trying to distract myself. But as the hours passed, I kept checking my phone. No calls, no messages.

It was 8:15 p.m. by the time I tried calling him again, I remember thinking, “He better have a good excuse,” I knew I was going to forgive him regardless.

He picked up.

But it wasn’t his voice I heard.

It was an older woman’s.

Maybe his mom, I thought... but then I remembered. His mom was dead.

"Good evening, ma. Can I speak to A?"

"A is dead."

"I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What did you say?"

"A is dead. He died this morning."

---

I’ve lost loves in many ways—through timing, and something much more permanent. But I carry pieces of them with me, in memories, lessons, and the quiet spaces where their presence used to be.

I realize that love doesn’t always come in a neatly wrapped package with a happy ending. We lose people—through misunderstandings, through growth, through death. But with every person we lose, we also gain something: perspective, a lesson, a memory. And in that, perhaps, we find a kind of love that stays with us forever.

Sometimes, I wonder what could have been. How each story would have played out.

I guess I’ll never know.

Love,

Sophia💜