You don’t need to believe in the supernatural.
You’re already haunted.
By the thing you didn’t say.
By the thing you didn’t do.
By the person you could’ve been
if you hadn’t blinked.
That’s regret.
It’s not a feeling.
It’s a parasite.
It burrows in.
And it grows every time you lie to yourself
about how much time you think you have.
Regret doesn’t show up all at once.
It shows up in inches.
In routines.
In silence.
In the same Tuesday you’ve lived for the last six years.
It’s the “later” you told your dream.
It’s the “next time” you told love.
It’s the “I’m fine” you told your pain.
You buried it.
But it’s not dead.
You just got better at pretending
you can’t hear the knocking.
Regret isn’t the past.
It’s the price tag
on every moment you talked yourself out of moving.
And the longer you stay still,
the more expensive it gets.
There’s no closure here.
No reset button.
No cleanse.
Just the truth:
You can’t change the ending.
But you’re still the one holding the pen.
So write.
Move.
Ruin the pattern.
Scare the silence.
Say what you should’ve said back then — to yourself, now.
Regret isn’t dead.
But you’re not either.
