Confession: I Miss the Person I Invented

Sometimes the person we miss never existed—
only the version our loneliness needed them to be.

I miss the person I invented—
the one I built from fragments of hope,
from scraps of possibility,
from the raw material of what I wanted you to be.

You were never that person.
I know that now.
But I miss them anyway.

I miss the version of you who understood me,
who saw through my walls,
who loved me in spite of my flaws.

I miss the version of you who was patient,
who was kind,
who was everything I needed.

But that wasn't you.
That was the person I created
to fill the empty spaces in my heart.

I took your smile and made it mean something it didn't.
I took your words and twisted them into promises.
I took your presence and turned it into permanence.

I built you into someone you never were,
someone you never could be,
someone who only existed in my mind.

And now I miss that person—
the invented version of you,
the one who never existed,
the one who lives only in my memory.

The real you is gone.
The invented you is gone.
But I miss them both.

I miss the person I invented
because they were perfect,
because they were everything I needed,
because they were safe.

The real you was complicated,
was messy,
was real.

And reality is hard.
So I miss the illusion,
the fantasy,
the person I created.

So here's my confession:
I miss the person I invented,
because they were easier to love
than the person you actually are.

I miss the ghost I made of you,
the shadow I filled with hope,
the empty space I filled with fantasy.

I miss the person who never existed,
because losing them hurts less
than accepting the person who did.