I handed you my heart
like a glass still warm from holding tea —
not boiling, not begging,
just honest.

You took it gently,
like someone afraid to leave fingerprints
on something that wasn’t theirs.

You said you weren’t ready.
That love, right now,
would feel like a detour
when you’re still drawing the map.

And I said okay.
But inside,
my ribs felt like a concert hall
that just missed the music
by seconds.

I didn’t fall for you loudly.
I fell in the quiet ways —
in the way your name sat in my throat
like a word I wasn’t supposed to speak.
In the way your friends laughed too knowingly,
like the universe told them
before I did.

You sat across from me
like gravity disguised as coincidence.
Like your silence
was louder than anything you could have said.

And maybe you did like me —
in that hesitant, half-drawn kind of way.
Maybe you were raised to believe
that feelings are distractions,
that love should wait
until every dream is neatly folded.

But I wasn’t trying to unravel you.
I just wanted to be something
you didn’t have to ignore.

I didn’t ask for a forever.
Just a flicker of yes.
A pause.
An ache mirrored back.

Instead, you offered me friendship
with hands that trembled
like they’d almost said more.

So now, I carry this moment
like a letter unsent —
creased, rewritten,
but still tucked away.

Not now, you said.
And maybe that’s the truth.

But somewhere,
beneath your temple-quiet discipline
and unspoken maybes,
I think you felt it too —

a softness too early,
a closeness too close.

Maybe not now.
Maybe not ever.

But if it ever becomes now,
I hope you remember —
I offered my heart
when it was still learning
how to be brave.

You're just a memory—
fading like sunlight at the edge of day,
a flower wilting in the hush of fall,
a river whispering itself away.

And yet...
hope lingers on that fragile thread of what if—
But is it worth holding on,
if all that’s left is space
growing wider
between your name and mine?

I don’t wish for you
to fade like footprints in the tide,
to vanish like whispers in the wind,
or drift away like a ghost at dawn.

I don’t want to forget.
I want to sense you—even from afar,
to feel the hush of your presence near,
to know your soul
still dances with mine
in quiet, invisible threads
that time cannot sever.

His love is more precious than pearls—
not for its shine,
but for the way it holds weight in silence,
for how it’s hidden deep,
yet offered without condition.

He once wrote my initials—
S.C.—
on the back of his hand
in red ink.

Bold.
Unashamed.
A quiet rebellion
against forgetting.

I wonder if the ink
sank into his skin,
leaving a mark
the world couldn't see—
but I could feel.

Or maybe it faded,
washed away with the next rinse,
like so many promises
made in passing.

Still, sometimes I wonder—
when he looks at his hands,
does he remember me?
Or did that ink
only ever stain paper hearts
like mine?

You left me there—
like a story you never finished.
A book on a shelf,
gathering dust,
forgotten with time.

Your interest faded,
and the pages grew cold.
But I stayed open,
waiting to be held again.

Still, I wait—
hoping for that moment
your eyes land on me again,
like they used to.
Hoping you’ll turn back,
give us one more read.

I want to remind you
of the magic we once had—
the rhythm, the pull,
the way we made sense
between the lines.

So I sit here, quiet,
not moving,
but full of everything
we ever were.

Still hoping—
you’ll remember
what it felt like
to hold me close
and never want to put me down.

I keep a library of lovers—
stories from my past,
each one a chapter that didn’t last.
I placed them on the shelves
like well-worn books,
but lately, I wonder—
were they just my faults
bound in pretty covers?

There was one love that had it all—
the fairytale,
the heartbreak,
the lesson.

Yes, it felt like a fairytale once—
so pure,
so full of light.
But looking back,
maybe it was just my young heart
coloring everything golden.

And yes,
it ended like a tragedy.
I reread it over and over,
trying to make sense of the pain.
But now I see—
it was my own hands
that folded the corners,
that tore the pages.

It became a lesson,
though I didn’t know it then.
I held on too long,
afraid to let go—
clinging not to love,
but to fear.

Now, I stand in this quiet library,
browsing through memories
with a bittersweet gaze.
Were they lovers,
or reflections of who I was,
what I needed to learn?

Still, I won’t close the shelves.
I won’t burn the books.
They’re part of me—
each one a mile on the road
that led me here.

Someday, I’ll write a new chapter—
not a fairytale,
but something real.
And when I do,
it’ll be the one
that finally stays open.