I'm Jealous of My Own Past Self
I look at old photos and I’m jealous.
Jealous of the person I used to be. The one who didn’t know this pain yet. The one who still had you.
I see myself in those pictures—smiling, laughing, completely unaware of what’s coming—and I envy her.
Because she didn’t know. She didn’t carry this weight. She didn’t wake up every day with this hole in her chest.
She got to live in a world where you were still in it.
And I would give anything to be her again.
I’m jealous of every version of me that got to have you. The me from last year. Five years ago. Ten years ago.
The me who could call you whenever I wanted. The me who didn’t know what it felt like to lose you.
I’m jealous of the conversations I had with you. The time we spent together. The ordinary moments I didn’t know would become memories I’d cling to for the rest of my life.
And now it’s gone. And I can’t get it back.
I look at old texts between us and I’m jealous of the me who got to receive those messages. Who got to hear your voice. Who got to see you.
I look at photos from holidays, birthdays, random ordinary days—and I’m jealous of the me who was living in those moments.
I’m jealous of how easy it was. How normal it felt. How I didn’t know those moments would be all we’d ever have.
But how could I have known? How was I supposed to know that time was running out?
I couldn’t. And that’s what makes it so hard.
I’m jealous of my own past self. The one who didn’t know this grief. The one who still got to have you.
And I’d give anything—anything—to be her again.
Even just for one more day.
One more conversation. One more hug. One more chance to be in your presence without knowing it would end.
But I can’t go back. I can’t undo the loss. I can’t unknow what I know now.
I can only look at who I used to be and ache for her. For the version of me that had you. For the life I lived before I knew what it felt like to lose you.
I’m jealous of my own past.
And I’ll spend the rest of my life missing the person I was when you were still here.