I met her on a night that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was late August, the air still thick with summer, and I was half-drunk on cheap beer and the kind of freedom that comes from not knowing what’s next. My friend dragged me to some rooftop gathering in downtown Nashville — a mix of local musicians, bartenders, and people who looked like they’d seen too many sunsets.
She was sitting on the ledge, her legs crossed, a vinyl tote beside her, the city lights reflecting off her bare shoulders. She looked like she belonged there — the kind of person who never tried too hard but always drew attention anyway.
When she turned and caught me staring, she smiled like she’d been expecting it.
“Do you play?” she asked, nodding toward the guitar leaning against a chair.
“Badly,” I said.
“Good,” she laughed. “So do I.”
We talked for hours that night — not the kind of conversation you have when you’re trying to impress someone, but the kind that feels like you’re catching up after years apart. She told me she was leaving town in a few days to start a new job in Portland. I told her I wasn’t really sure where I was going, just somewhere else.
Someone started playing The One That Got Away by Katy Perry — half ironic, half nostalgic — and she groaned.
“God, this song always gets me,” she said.
“Too pop for you?”
“No,” she said, looking down at her hands. “Too true.”
I didn’t think much of it then. But later, as the night thinned out and we found ourselves alone by the stairwell, I felt it — that quiet pull between what’s real and what’s just timing.
She leaned against the railing, hair falling forward, and said,
“You ever meet someone and think, if this were a different month, maybe even a different week, things could be completely different?”
I said yes.
And I meant it.
We kissed — not the wild kind you see in movies, but the kind that feels more like a pause than a beginning.
She pulled back first, whispered, “Let’s not make promises. Let’s just have this.”
So we did.
The next morning, she was gone. No number, no Instagram, no goodbye text.
Just a note scribbled on a napkin from the rooftop bar:
“Keep making bad music. You’re good at it.”
I kept that napkin for months. It stayed in my glove compartment, then in a drawer, then finally inside a book of guitar tabs I never finished learning.
Years later, I was driving through some small town in Montana, chasing freelance gigs and trying to convince myself I was fine being alone. I had my playlist on shuffle when Back to December by Taylor Swift came on — and suddenly, there she was again. Not her face exactly, but that feeling.
It hit me how every few songs, she’d find her way back — hidden inside lyrics, or the way someone sang a certain line like they didn’t mean to break your heart but did anyway.
That night I sat in a motel parking lot, scrolling through songs that felt like her:
- The One That Got Away – Katy Perry
- Back to December – Taylor Swift
- Beeswing – Richard Thompson
- Almost Lover – A Fine Frenzy
And for the first time, I realized what music really is — it’s not about remembering someone, it’s about admitting you can’t forget.
I think about her sometimes, though I’ve stopped wondering what would’ve happened. Some people don’t stay, not because they don’t care, but because they’re meant to be part of the song, not the story.
And maybe that’s okay.
Because every time I pick up my guitar now — when the strings buzz and my voice cracks — she’s there. Not as the one who got away, but as the reason I ever started playing at all.
So yeah, these are my songs for the one that got away.
But they’re also songs for me —
for the version of myself who still believes that even missed connections can leave behind something worth hearing.
