Is Missing More Regretful Than Never Having?

The night under moonlight is ink too diluted to spread, only by the windowsill does it faintly bleed into the shape of her.

She scrolls through her phone, the screen’s light casting a glow on her chin. On social media, an old friend has posted a marriage certificate. Two smiling faces pressed together against a bright red background, making everyone look festive. Her finger pauses, the screen light trembling at her fingertip. She doesn’t like the post, nor does she scroll away.

That bit of old business in her heart is like a needle hidden in a padded coat—fine if you don’t touch it, but it pricks you when you do.

“The things you never got”—think about them long enough, and they become like the date tree in someone else’s yard. Its fruit hangs red and vibrant on the branches, swaying to catch your eye when the wind blows. From the other side of the wall, you see those dates, brilliantly red, and a longing stirs in your heart. But in the end, they belong to someone else. You might think, if only we had a tree like that. But then you turn to the meal at your own table, and the taste of those dates fades. It’s ultimately a distant thought, vague, harmless.

But “what you missed” is different. It’s like a fallen leaf, seemingly within reach, yet carried away by the wind. Just when you want to reach out and catch it, that leaf has already drifted far. You remember it hovering just at your fingertips before the wind took it away. It’s like clearly remembering a moment you can never return to. You can even recall the direction the wind brushed your cheek that day at the intersection.

That year at the train station, it was noisy. He looked back at her three times; she counted each one clearly. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something. Her own heart was a stormy sea, but her throat felt stuffed with cotton. In the end, she just tightened her scarf one more loop. The train pulled away, and she said nothing. The wind from that day has been blowing ever since.

Later, she often wondered: what if she had called out to him then? The thought doesn’t come often, but when it does, it’s like a greasy stain left on the stovetop—touching anything leaves a mark.

She dated someone later, a good man, considerate and warm. They got engaged. On the day of their pre-wedding photoshoot, the photographer teased her, “Smile wider, bride!” She grinned. The studio lights were blinding, and for a fleeting moment, she seemed to see again that flustered young man from the station, wearing his faded denim jacket.

It turns out, some people don’t walk with you to the end, but they leave a缺口 (gap) in your heart. When you drink hot water, when a cold wind blows, that gap faintly reminds you it’s still there.

In the end, “never having” is fate—you can blame heaven. But “missing” is your own hand not holding on tight enough—you have no one to blame.

It’s like throwing away your own umbrella and later getting drenched in the rain, without even a reason to complain.

Dawn approaches, the moonlight fading to the color of frosted glass. She taps her phone off. The screen goes dark, like a sigh. Her husband beside her turns over in his sleep, mumbling something, his arm unconsciously draping across her.

She gently moves his arm back under the covers and carefully tucks in the quilt corner. In that moment, she suddenly feels that life isn’t so bad—just quiet.

Some missed chances are like small, unmarked graves in the heart—no grass grows, no stone stands. But life must go on. And what’s more, you have to live the life before you, and live it well.

Perhaps living is about being propped up by those “almosts” and “could-have-beens,” walking forward while nursing the ache.

Or perhaps, every missed chance is just to make us stumble, at a more fitting moment, squarely into the embrace of our true home.