Disappointment is a quiet guest.

It doesn’t slam doors or shout, it slips in softly, pulls up a chair beside your hope, and whispers, “Not this time.”

It arrives in the spaces where dreams once stood.
In the silence after the phone doesn’t ring.
In the sigh after the words you needed go unsaid.
It’s the echo of almost
almost enough, almost perfect, almost yours.

We don’t talk about disappointment enough. Not in the way we should. We call it failure. We brush it off with logic. We bury it beneath gratitude because “things could be worse.” And sure, maybe they could. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Disappointment is love with nowhere to go.
It’s the shape your heart made around something that never quite arrived.

But maybe disappointment is also a compass.
A way your soul tells you: “This mattered.”
A sign that you’re still reaching,
still believing, still alive enough to feel.

So let it hurt.

Let it ache in your chest like rain that won’t fall.
Let it unravel you, just a little, because in the unraveling, there’s room to be remade.

Then gently gather the pieces of your hope.
Not the shattered illusion, but the part of you that dared to want more.

And try again.

Write the poem. Ask the question. Make the call.
Disappointment is not the end.
It’s the comma in a sentence
you’re still brave enough to finish.