by Jordyn Park
Milo had a strange hobby that no one really understood, mostly because he never explained it properly.
He collected almosts.
Not objects. Not stamps or coins or anything normal like that. He collected moments that almost happened but didn’t.
His first almost was simple: a conversation that nearly turned into an apology, but didn’t. He wrote it down on a scrap of paper and kept it in his shoe box. Then another followed soon after. A wave that almost knocked him over. A friendship that almost started but ended in a hallway nod instead.
By the time he was fourteen, he had a drawer full.
He labeled everything carefully.
Almost said something important
Almost got invited
Almost understood what they meant
His parents thought it was just a phase. His teacher thought it was creative writing practice gone slightly off track. His best friend thought it was kind of depressing, but also kind of cool.
Milo didn’t mind any of those interpretations.
Interpretation didn’t change the collection.
What he liked most about almosts was that they felt unfinished in a way that still mattered. They weren’t failures. They were something else. Something suspended.
One day, a new student arrived at school. Her name was June. She sat two desks away in math class and always finished her work too quickly, like the questions were slightly annoyed at her confidence.
Milo noticed something unusual about her immediately.
She also seemed to collect almosts.
He saw it in the way she paused before answering questions she already knew. In the way she almost raised her hand and then didn’t. In the way she sometimes looked like she was listening to something that hadn’t been said yet.
One afternoon, she dropped a notebook. It fell open near Milo’s desk. Inside were pages of writing. Short notes. Fragments.
Milo didn’t say anything. He just slid the notebook back carefully when she wasn’t looking. The next day, there was a folded paper waiting on his desk.
It said, “I think you collect them too.”
He looked up. June didn’t turn around. She was staring straight ahead like she hadn’t done anything at all.
After that, they started exchanging almosts. Not directly. They never spoke about it.
But sometimes Milo would find a note in his locker, almost asked if you’re okay.
And sometimes June would find one in her book, almost told someone the story properly.
It became a mutually understood system between them. A language without permission.
One day, Milo brought her to his collection. He showed her the drawer. She didn’t laugh. Instead, she added something.
Milo stared at it.
“That’s not real,” he said.
June shrugged. “Neither are the others. Not really. They’re just what didn’t finish happening.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
For a while, they kept collecting. Then, slowly, something changed. The almosts started to decrease. One afternoon, June raised her hand in class and actually spoke. Milo didn’t write it down. He just watched it happen. Later, he realized his drawer felt lighter. It was not completely empty, just less full of things waiting to be completed. He still kept it, though. Just in case the world decided to hesitate again.
Art by Claire Steifan, “Giving Heart“
About the Author
Jordyn writes fiction about small mysteries in ordinary life. She is interested in silence, observation, and the stories people don?t fully tell.