You’re my something borrowed.
Not in the romantic sense people usually mean it, but in the way borrowed things quietly pass through our lives, only ever meant to stay for a little while. They are never really ours, yet somehow we hold them close enough to forget that.
I think of you like a book I happened to find along the way. Never really mine. Just borrowed.
I didn’t write your story. I wasn’t there for the chapters that came before me, and maybe I won’t be there for all the ones that follow. But somewhere in the middle, our stories collided, and I got to read your best lines. I laughed with them, cried over them, and lingered on the pages that made you who you are. I got to know the chapters you wish you could rewrite, and the ones you still can’t revisit without feeling something.
Your story was never mine to keep. All I could do was read it through my own eyes, finding meaning in places you may never have intended, carrying pieces of it with me in ways you’ll probably never know.
That’s the thing about borrowed books. You return them when it’s time, but they never leave you the way they found you. A sentence lingers. A character stays. Sometimes an entire chapter quietly settles inside you, reshaping the way you see the world, or yourself.
Books really are amazing.
You’re amazing.
You’re my borrowed story. The one I won’t write, only read. The one I’ll remember, but never truly live. A temporary fantasy, like any other work of fiction. And maybe that’s what makes it so beautiful. Some stories aren’t meant to belong to us. They’re simply meant to be read, to stay with us long enough to leave their mark, and to be returned.
Still, I’ll carry yours with me long after I’ve turned the final page.
She Was Sea 