The pharmacy was quiet, the fluorescent lights humming above the aisles. I rounded the corner with my prescription in hand and there he was—my ex-husband—standing by the cough syrup. We hadn’t spoken in years. The divorce had been quiet, civil even.
But I’d always wondered if he regretted it. We locked eyes. He gave a small wave. I gave a polite nod.
And then we both looked away. I wanted to say something. I wanted to ask, “Did you ever miss me? ” But I couldn’t.
My pride wouldn’t let me. But he looked like he wanted to ask the same thing. I walked out of that store with my heart pounding and my throat tight, and by the time I got home, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall, wondering if he was doing the same thing somewhere across town. Did I matter to him as much as he mattered to me?
Did he ever replay our last conversation? Did he ever miss me when no one was around? It’s a strange thing how someone can pass through your life like a season and yet stay rooted in your heart for a lifetime. And sometimes all it takes is one unexpected encounter—a voice, a familiar walk, a passing glance—to remind you just how deep those roots go.
When we were young, we felt everything so deeply, but we didn’t know how to handle it. So we messed up. We walked away too fast. We didn’t say what we meant.
We held back what we really felt. And then life just moved on. But here’s the truth that no one tells us when we’re younger: just because the years have gone by doesn’t mean the feelings always go with them. So many relationships never end because the love disappeared.
They end because two people were too scared to speak their truth. You thought they didn’t care. They thought you had moved on. No one wanted to be the one to admit they still loved.
And so, the silence between you became the loudest thing in the room. I’ve sat with women in their seventies who told me the same story in different words. “I didn’t know he still cared. ” “If I had known how she really felt, maybe I would have stayed.
”
It breaks my heart every time. Because that’s the power of fear. It doesn’t scream. It whispers.
It tells you to play it safe, to protect your pride, to wait for them to make the first move. And in doing so, it can rob you of the connection you long for most. Have you ever sat alone years after the end of something and cried, not because of what happened, but because of what didn’t happen? The things unsaid.
The hugs not given. The apology never made. The question never asked. Do you still think about me?
These moments feel heavier when you’re older, because now you understand how short time really is. You’ve seen friends pass. You’ve had mornings where you looked in the mirror and thought, “Where did the years go? ” And suddenly that one person from the past doesn’t feel so far away anymore.
You realize maybe it wasn’t just young love. Maybe it was real love, just mishandled. Maybe the two of you weren’t wrong for each other. You just met at the wrong time.
Maybe you were both afraid. Maybe you still are. There’s a woman I remember—she told me about bumping into her ex-husband at a pharmacy decades after their divorce. They hadn’t spoken in years.
The divorce had been quiet, civil even. But she’d always wondered if he regretted it. They locked eyes. He gave a small wave.
She gave a polite nod. And then, they both looked away. She told me, “I wanted to say something. I wanted to ask, ‘Did you ever miss me?
’ But I couldn’t. My pride wouldn’t let me. ”
Then she paused and added, “But he looked like he wanted to ask the same thing. ”
Moments like that are fleeting, but their impact can last a lifetime.
Because when we let fear lead, we lose the chance to find out what’s really still there. We miss the opportunity to heal old wounds, not just between two people, but within ourselves. Fear doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it’s quiet, subtle.
A shrug instead of a smile. A joke instead of honesty. A “take care” instead of “I wish things were different. ” That’s how misunderstandings begin—not with conflict, but with caution.
We think we’re protecting ourselves by not reaching out. But often, we’re just reinforcing a distance that was never meant to be there in the first place. Think about how many people walk around every day carrying untold stories, hidden feelings, regrets they never voice, questions they’re too afraid to ask. One woman shared with me how, after forty years apart, she wrote a letter to the man she had loved in her twenties.
She didn’t ask for anything. She just thanked him for the good memories, apologized for the misunderstandings, and wished him well. A few weeks later, she received a reply. He had never stopped thinking about her.
And though they both had lived full lives since, that one exchange helped them heal a chapter that had remained open for decades. They didn’t get back together. They didn’t need to. But they both slept a little easier after that.
Sometimes closure isn’t about the end of a story. It’s about understanding it better. And when you’re in your sixties, seventies, or even eighties, what matters most isn’t what you lost—it’s what you’ve learned. What you choose to forgive.
What you choose to say. And who you choose to become in the time you have left. Because even now, especially now, your heart still has room to grow. It still deserves kindness, still deserves joy, still deserves connection.
And yes, still deserves love. Whether you find it again with someone new, or whether it arrives in the form of self-acceptance, the door is never truly closed. Love at seventy isn’t the same as love at twenty. But in many ways, it’s deeper, quieter, wiser.
It’s no longer about proving anything. It’s about feeling safe, seen, valued. Maybe you’ll never get closure from them. Maybe the words you long to hear will never come.
But you can still offer closure to yourself. You can sit with that memory, hold it gently, and say, “Thank you for what we had. I’m letting it rest now. ”
Or maybe you’ll decide to reach out.
Write that letter. Send that message. And maybe you’ll discover that they, too, were waiting for the same moment. It doesn’t have to be dramatic.
It doesn’t have to be romantic. It doesn’t even have to lead anywhere. But sometimes just saying, “Hey, I was thinking about you” is enough. If you’ve walked away from an encounter with someone you once loved—heart pounding, eyes misty, words stuck in your throat—take a deep breath.
You’re not broken. You’re simply remembering, and there is no shame in that. You’ve loved. You’ve lost.
You’ve lived. And your story isn’t over yet.