If He Wanted To; He Would.

It began with laughter. Bright, unstoppable, breathless laughter that stitched two strangers together as though they had been waiting their whole lives to find someone who could see the world through the same tilted lens. Five years of messages and missed chances had let to one strange wonderful night; an arcade where the DJ couldn’t stop winning, a bowling lane where the stylist couldn't land a pin, a dance floor where introduced tumbled one after another, each friend treating her like someone who already belonged.

That night, it had felt like magic. Not cinematic, the kind that fades when the credits roll, but the quiet sort that hides in shared smiles, easy teasing, and the comfort of being utterly at ease. The sort that make you think: this could actually be something.

But magic, like music, depends on rhythm. and sometimes, people fall out of sync.

Those first weeks were golden. messages flying, jokes tossed back and forth, new memories built on the foundation of old. She found herself smiling at her phone in the middle of fitting, while he admitted to piercing together playlists inspired by their night there were plans for more adventures, more late nights, more laughter.

But the weeks stretched, and the rhythm faltered. His world was a blur of gigs, late nights that melted into dawns. Her world pulsed with deadlines, fittings, shoots, fabric arriving late and clients arriving early. At first, the excuses were charming. “I’ll make it up to you” “life is hectic but you’re on my mind. Lets plan something soon”

“Soon” became the most overused word between them.

She noticed the first shift was not in what was said but what was unsaid. Messages slowed conversations shortened. Where there had once been paragraphs, now there were one liners, emojis sent like placeholders for presence. Where there had been invitations, now there were vague assurances.

If he wanted to, he would, whispered her inner voice. Sharp as a pin. Still, she gave him the benefit of the doubt. She rembered the laughter the warmth, the feeling of ease. she remembered his friends embracing her on that first night. She remembered the way his eyes had lit up when she rolled yet another gutter ball, teasing without cruelty, laughing with her rather than at her. Surely that had meant something. Surely it wasn’t so easy to walk away from that.

But then came the plans broken without apology. The dinner they were supposed to share before she left for shows, canceled last minute, no attempt to reschedule. The message that arrived at 2am days after silence: sorry things are crazy.

She stared at the words glowing in the dark, feeling the hollowness. Crazy was an excuse, crazy meant “you are not a priority right now”

If he wanted to he would.

She repeated it like a mantra, though it tasted like iron in her mouth.

Friends noticed first “ Have you heard from him lately” “Didn’t you two have something planned” Their well meaning questions only widened the ache. she shrugged. Forced a smile. Changed the subject. She now how to dress not just bodies; but faces too a mask of composure was easy to pull on.

But at night, alone, she replayed that adventure. The arcade lights. The jacket. The rooftop laughter. She wondered if he’d recalled their fun. If she had been just another character in his endless line up of late nights and flashing lights.

The truth arrived not in a message, but in its absence. Days turned into a month without a word. The silence grew heavy, impossible to ignore. she tried once more, sending a lighthearted message, something playful, something that echoed the way they used to be.

Seen. No Reply.

The balloon that had once floated above them for five years finally popped. Not with drama, not with cruelty, just with the sharp sting of being unimportant to someone you had wanted so badly to matter to.

She sat with the ache, turned it over in her palms like a stone smoothed by tide. She thought of the phrase she had whispered to herself over and over. If he wanted to, he would. It wasn’t just an excuse, but a compass. He hadn’t, because he didn't want to enough. His rhythm was elsewhere, his priorities stacked differently and no amount of waiting or wishing could change that.

What hurt wasn't the loss of him; it was the loss of the possibility. The nights they’d shared had shimmered like the beginning of something extraordinary. But beginnings mean nothing if they don’t grow.

She let herself grieve but she didn't let herself stay there. There was work to be done, life to be lived, laughter still to be found. She poured herself back into her work, finding joy in colour, fabrics, transformation of the ordinary into the extraordinary. she surrounded herself with people who showed up, who answered calls, who made her laugh without needing reminders.

Every now and then she thought of him, she wondered if he ever thought of her, if he ever regretted they didn't try harder to stay in the beat of each other. Ships passing between dance floor songs.

If he wanted to he would., and he hadn’t.

In the end, that was enough. Enough to close the chapter, enough to set her free.

She carried the memory of their time like a pressed flower; beautiful, fleeting, preserved not because it lasted but because it reminded her how beautiful they could be.