Versions of Myself I Never Met

I sometimes wonder about the versions of me who never made it. The ones who took different roads, made different choices, turned left when I turned right. In some parallel space, they’re out there, living lives I could’ve had. And I wonder if they ever think of me—the version of themselves who stayed behind.

What would it have been like, to live in a world where I said yes instead of no? To choose love when fear whispered otherwise? To leave when I stayed, or stay when I should’ve left? I can almost feel them, those alternative selves, like ghosts of what could’ve been. And I wonder if they feel the same pull toward me. The quiet ache of lives we never shared.

There’s a longing, isn’t there? For the paths not taken. Not because we regret them, but because there’s something thrilling in the mystery of who we might have been. What would have happened if we hadn’t been afraid? If we had trusted ourselves more, or cared less what others thought? Would we have become someone different, or would we still be us—just with a different story?

I think of the versions of myself who might have been braver, happier, more open. I imagine them living boldly, unafraid of what they could lose. And part of me envies them, though I know they, too, are haunted by roads they never took. We’re all living in this strange, impossible intersection of who we were, who we could have been, and who we are still becoming.

And yet, here I am, with all the versions of myself I’ve met so far. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe the yearning for what could have been is the same thing as realizing that, in the end, the only person I can truly become is the one who chose this path—the one I’m on right now.