A could have been

 

A Monologue of Lost Love

"You know, I’ve been sitting here, holding this glass like it’s the last anchor to my sanity. Ice cracking, melting into the whiskey, but I haven’t taken a sip. My friend thinks I’m fine, but I’m not. I’m pacing through some memory field, lost in a story I wish wasn’t mine. And it’s her.

This girl... She was different. Or maybe I thought she was. She showed me a version of herself that I could’ve fallen for, no—did fall for. She was the kind of woman who carried herself with a quiet conviction, said she went to church twice a week, read the Bible often. That’s what got me. Not the faith, but the idea of it—of someone with depth, someone who could break through the walls I’ve built so high.

I told her I write, and I suggested, ‘When you find a verse that speaks to you, share it with me. Let’s talk about it.’ She agreed, and for a moment, I thought... maybe this one is different. Maybe she could be the fire in my cold, hollow spaces.

We texted for days. Meaningless conversations to pass the time—hours of back-and-forth that felt like they’d lead somewhere. But that spark? The one she lit in me? It started to fade. Not a single verse came my way. Not one. Instead, it was all talk about her family, her life. And the more she talked, the more I realized the person she was showing me wasn’t the person she promised to be.

So one day, I asked, ‘What happened to the idea of sharing Bible verses with me?’ She took her sweet time replying. When she finally did, all she said was, ‘Oh, I’ve been so busy lately. I’m sorry.’

Busy. Right. That word—'busy'—it’s like a dagger dressed in an excuse. And in that moment, something shifted. The girl I thought she was—the one who could’ve been different—she became... ordinary. Just another story in the file of 'Same Girl, Different Lie.' She was like a one-hit song, the kind that gets you dancing for a while, but then it fades into the background, forgotten.

I know it sounds petty. A Bible verse, of all things. But it wasn’t about that. It was about the inconsistency, the lie wrapped in charm. She wasn’t who she said she was, and that was the loss.

She was beautiful, though. God, she had this charm, this undefinable allure. Her eyes—they were like stained glass windows. Colorful, fragile, hiding something deeper. But when the fire burned low, when the illusion broke, she became hot in a different way—burning out, leaving ashes behind.

And now? Now she’s just a memory, a could-have-been.

My friend doesn’t get it. He never does. He thinks it’s about the verse, or that I’m making this up, spinning one of my fictional tales. But it’s real. She’s real. Or she was. And I... I’m just a man staring at a glass of whiskey, wondering why I ever let myself believe in her.

I don’t close bars. I leave while the music’s still playing. So, I’ll see you around. This story’s done chief."