Some things in life never quite become stars.
They hover in that in-between space—hazy clouds of color and light, swirling with possibility. Dreams that shimmered on the horizon. Connections that felt electric for a moment. Paths that branched so close to “yes” before fading into “not yet” or “not ever.”
I used to chase them harder, trying to force the gas and dust to ignite. If I just worked longer, wished louder, held on tighter—surely, they’d collapse into something solid and bright. A career that almost took off. A love that almost stayed. A version of me that almost arrived on time.
But nebulas don’t work that way.
They’re not failures waiting to happen. They’re not almosts because they lacked something essential. They’re vast, breathtaking regions where stars could be born, but sometimes choose to remain clouds instead—diffuse, dreamy, beautiful in their unfinished state.
I’ve learned to stop grieving them as lost stars and start admiring them as they are.
There’s the nebula of the book I almost wrote—pages of notes still tucked in a drawer, glowing faintly with ideas that lit me up for seasons. There’s the nebula of the city I almost moved to—plane tickets researched, apartments bookmarked, a whole life imagined in another skyline. There’s the nebula of us—the conversations that stretched into mornings, the almost-kisses, the quiet certainty that this could be something, until it gently dispersed.
They never condensed. They never burned. And that’s okay.
Because nebulas are where new things begin, even when they don’t finish. The dust from one can seed entire galaxies later, in ways we can’t predict. The colors they paint across our sky—the pinks of hope, the blues of wonder, the purples of almost-love—stay with us long after the cloud drifts apart.
I don’t look up at them with regret anymore.
I look up with gratitude.
For the beauty they gave while they lasted. For the potential they let me feel. For the proof that my heart can still dream in color, even when the dream stays hazy.
Some things aren’t meant to become stars. They’re meant to be nebulas—vast, luminous, and perfectly unfinished.
And on quiet nights, when I need reminding that wonder doesn’t always have to resolve, I find them still glowing there. Not quite formed. Not quite gone. Just beautifully, peacefully almost.