4 months Is not enough
Not enough to know
Anything
Or
Anyone

Not enough to know how I feel
Not enough to tell you how I feel
Not enough to tell you how I am

Not enough to know
Not enough for you to feel how I feel towards you
Not enough for me to feel how you feel towards me

4 months Is not enough
Not enough to know
Anything
Or
Anyone

some days i still miss him.
not even the way he touched me
or the way we laughed
or the way we argued
like we were the only two people
who’d ever been 16 and heartbroken.
but i miss the us that lived between homework and hallway glances,
the version of me who thought love was
"he blocks you but still cares."

he made me feel like a girl worth breaking.
and i kept writing poems
like maybe if i got the words right,
he’d come back.

but now there’s you.
also an N.
also a mystery.
but your silence feels softer.
like a sentence left unfinished
instead of a door slammed shut.

you’re a nerd too.
quiet but not invisible.
your ambition lives in your eyes
and the way you talk about football
like it’s something holy.
i want to sit next to you on the pitch,
ask questions i already know the answers to,
just to hear you explain them.

i don’t know what i feel.
i just know i still think of him
when feathers fall from nowhere.
and i think of you
when i pick up my pen
and start over.

Carrying a photocard of us
Is like carrying a broken dream

A broken dream, yes
I carry this dream in my pencil case
No I don't self sabotage myself by gazing at it all the time.
But I keep it to reassure me that you are here
Somewhere near
So near
Just right in my pencil case

Sometimes it's heavy
The weight of it just gets me
The broken pieces of this dream
Makes me bleed

But I carry it
Just a broken dream
Placing it in my pencil case so near
In a form of a photocard

The pride in his eyes
Melting into my soul
As fire spreads through the forest
It's spreading throughout my body
Like a thorn penetrating through my skin
It's eating me alive

The pride in his eyes
Is suffocating my soul
As thirst spreads through the throat
It's agonising my body
Like a neil penetrating through my bones
It's killing me bit by bit

The pride in his eyes
Is haunting me alive

Imagine being so wide with the mind but being so narrowed with words

- Just a suitable description of him

In love with a mind that can solve the stars,
And here I am analysing their scars

His knowledge stretches into the future
And here’s mine diverting back into the past

He hikes through the mountains
And here’s me growing lilies into my yard

He is a scout lead teaching life’s skills
And here’s me sharing Kenwood house’s appeal

His age is beyond my wisdom
And here’s mine growing like a lavender’s seed

Because this is love
And this is how it is meant to be

I am in love with a growing mind in the countryside
While mine’s stuck in the city, pinning dots of the past

They say, ‘Eyes are the window to the soul’
And I agree
And I feel
Maybe
That’s true
Because ever since you and I have exchanged our vows
My vision have become blurry
Blurred by love

Blurred to see any better
Blurred to find any new

I think it is a curse
But
Maybe it is not

Maybe I’ve found treasure
And it’s shine has faded my vision

But maybe it’s a curse
But
Maybe it is not

It’s only clearly when I see you
It’s only clearly when I love you

And I feel all belonged to you
And maybe
That’s true

Because ever since you and I have exchanged our vows
My vision had become blurry
Blurred by love

How many times do I have to play
the game of roses
where naively I ask if
"you love me?'
Or
"you love me not'
and let the petals cease our fate

he was like a candle.
not a bonfire,
not something wild and uncontrollable—
just…
this small, steady glow
that made everything feel warmer
for a little while.

he showed up
with a smile that felt like summer
and hands that didn’t know how to stay.
but god, when he was here
he lit me up.

i didn’t even know how dark it was
until he walked in
and made it feel like morning.

He burnt fast.
hot.
quick.
blinding.
and before I could even cup my hands
to protect him from the wind,
He was gone.

no smoke.
no goodbye.
just the cold.

what do you do
with melted wax
and a memory?

i still replay the way he held me
like it was temporary.
like he already knew
He’d have to leave.

and maybe i always knew it too.
maybe some part of me
was already preparing
for the goodbye
the second he said hello.

He was a candle.
and i
i was the room
that stayed warm
long after he was gone.

You said
you’re not looking for anything right now,
and I nodded like it made sense.
Like it didn’t rearrange the hope
I hadn’t even finished building yet.

I smiled —
not because I was okay,
but because I didn’t know
how to be anything else.

I didn’t cry.
Not because it didn’t hurt,
but because the tears felt too big
for something that was never mine
to begin with.

I muted the songs that reminded me of you,
scrolled past things I wanted to send,
laughed when your name came up
like it didn’t pull something
just beneath the skin.

I think I made peace with it
a little too quickly.
Turned my disappointment
into politeness,
like maybe if I didn’t make it real,
it wouldn’t have to stay.

You were a soft almost,
a quiet what-if,
a maybe I didn’t get to keep.

And no —
I never cried.
But maybe I should’ve.

Because not everything that hurts
has to be loud.
Some heartbreaks
just sit there,
unspoken.

Many
          footprints
                          on my heart
                                               yet
                                                    yours
   ­                                                          more apparent

Through and through
Taking trains and planes
Switching between stations and lanes
Like the weather does it’s shift from rain to hail
And rushing through the streets
Chockablock but yet
Hoping to see a glimpse of someone
Hoping to make amends
Searching for it here and there
Willing to make amends

Synnove Carvalho

I wait.
I open my screen, and there I see
a notification—
not from you,
but from Duolingo, urging me to do my Latin lesson today.

I hear a ring.
I look at my screen,
and there it is—
a notification,
not from you,
but from my best friend who needs me to select a dress for her.

Then I see a blink.
I look at my screen,
and there it is—
a notification,
not from you,
but from the group chat I’ve been a member of since 2023.

And I finally tuck my phone away.
Then I hear a ding.
I look at my screen,
and there it is—
a notification,
yet not from you.

Love is the only emotion
That makes one experience every other emotion combined in one

It takes one's honour
It takes one's soul

It makes one go from a blooming flower
To a flameful burnt flower
It puts a smile on one's face but brings rain into their heart

Love's fresh
But
Then
It
Rots
It heals
but
Then
It
Bleeds

And love makes one experience it all
All in one
All at once

Mi Cielo—my heaven above.
The words were foreign,
but the feeling was always home.
That’s what I called him—
softly, lovingly—
even when our languages
couldn’t quite hold each other.

But I held onto what mattered:
the meaning.
Because in my heart,
he was never a stranger.
He was part of me,
the part I couldn’t let go of,
even when nothing made sense.

I never imagined he’d drift—
become someone I couldn’t reach.
He was mine in the only way that mattered,
a light I thought would never dim.

I didn’t want him to feel far,
didn’t want silence
to be the loudest thing between us.
I just wanted closeness—
always.
I wanted forever.

Things are different now.
But still, in the quiet parts of me,
you’ll always be Mi Cielo—
my heaven,
my heart.

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.

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.

I fell in love with an Englishman
A physics freak
And
A scout led

Solving the equations
And
Hiking through the mountains

His kind nature
And
His big smile

Honestly bought me great delight

His passion for hiking
Bought a similarity trait
But
Our age bought a challenging take

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?

We were just like the spring
So new
And
Our love just like summer
Vibrant flames of burning passion
And now
Our memories just like autumn
Providing armful comfort
And
Our signature places just like winter
Frozen in time

Your skin is cotton soft
And your lips is jellybeans

At the end of the day, we all are stories written as cures or curses in people's lives ...
It possibly could be some beautiful curse that develops people's lives.
And some cure that ruins people's lives.
Yes, it might act opposite as some stories are forcefully forged by characters who aren't supposed to be tangled within the chapters in the stories.

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.

Oh, the guilt—
it sits heavy in my chest.
I carry it every day.
Do you?
Or did you slip away
untouched
by the wreckage you left behind?

I’ll never know.
You hide your heart
like a locked door.
But I remember how you came
not with kindness,
but with something to prove—
a twisted belief
that girls like me,
soft-spoken,
faithful,
could be broken
if pushed just right.

But don’t you see?
It was never about me failing.
It was you—
your hands,
your choices,
your violence.

I was whole.
I was safe.
Until you burned through
what I was.

You called it a test.
I call it a wound.
You called it truth.
I call it cruelty.

You proved your point,
if that’s what you wanted.
But what did it cost?
A piece of me I’ll never get back.
A soul scarred by what you called proof.

i noticed you
for months—

in the hallways,
in the classrooms,
in the soft spaces between bells
where nothing big ever happens
except maybe
you.

you passed me once
and i remember thinking,
he looks nice,
but i didn’t do anything about it—
not yet.

then came may,
and something in the air shifted
or maybe it was just me
finally listening to the way
my heart leaned toward yours
without asking permission.

i told my best friend
about how you might be
a maybe worth chasing.
and it took me
a week
and five almosts
to finally walk in your direction.

monday came
like a dare.
i said, i’m doing it today.
we walked—
me, my courage, and my best friend
who peeled off into the silent library,
behind glass walls,
where she could still watch me
from a distance
like a quiet lifeline.

i said,
“hey, can i talk to you outside?”
and you followed—
no hesitation.

while we were walking
i looked at my best friend for help
through the glass wall,
and
through the reflection
i saw your face.
and god,
you were smiling.
like i wasn’t a stranger
but someone you’d already
been waiting for.

we stood in the courtyard
and i asked if we could be friends
like it wasn’t the scariest thing
i’d said all year.

you said “sure”
and smiled,
and the whole courtyard
felt lighter.

i asked if we could have lunch.
you said you had lessons,
and i nodded
like my heart wasn’t already
writing a story about us.

then i asked,
“what about tomorrow?”
you said, “depends on your timetable.”
you listened as i read it out loud,
as if my voice
mattered to you
even for a moment.

Then you paused—
just a flicker—
like maybe you had time,
or maybe you didn’t,
or maybe you were thinking
about exams,
or maybe
you were just being gentle.

“nah, i’ve got lessons then too,”
you said.
and i nodded,
like that didn’t quietly
deflate something
small and hopeful inside me.

“do you use insta?”
i asked.
and you said “yeah”
and typed your name into my phone
with the calm of someone
who didn’t know
they were the center
of someone else’s courage.

and then—
typical me—
i realised i didn’t know your name.
so i asked.
you said “niy.”
i stuck out my hand,
said “i’m syn*,”
like this was a business deal,
not a soft beginning.

later, i told my best friend about the handshake.
my best friend laughed,
“how formal of you, syn*,”
and we both did.
but what she didn’t see
was how loud my heart was,
how that handshake
held everything
i’d never said out loud.

because i had passed you
so many times before.
but this time,
i stopped.
i spoke.
i tried.
and for once,
you saw me.
not just in passing—
but really,
truly.

and that,
was enough.
for now.

This deadly disease of love leaves scars on my heart each time I try to find love within the seven seas.
With hope I travel these seas.
With determination I sail for weeks, months, and years.
With strength I face the unbearable airs and storms at seas.
And I still manage to get myself tangled in the airs of the disease.

They called me rude,
disrespectful,
bold.
But all I did was hold up
a mirror in a classroom
that only ever showed
the filtered angles
of history.

Yes, I’m the girl
who called Gandhi a ‘pick me’.
Because someone had to say it.

Three satyagrahas,
and only one worked.
Salt was his only seasoning of success.
But he still acted like he invented
morality.

A fast unto death—
how is that not dramatic?
But if I raise my voice in a debate,
I'm the hysterical one?
Please.

You want to talk self-control,
but ignore how he slept beside
young girls
as some twisted, spiritual experiment—
trying to test his strength
or his shame?
That’s not peace.
That’s a power trip
dressed in a dhoti.

And still—
I’m the one scolded
for “slandering”
a figure we never even saw
in full light.
Your history books
hid the shadows.

But me and my friend—
we studied the margins,
read between the lines,
asked why truth is only allowed
in black and white.

So yes.
Write it in the yearbook,
pin it to the wall:
I’m the girl who called Gandhi a pick me.
Not because I hate history—
but because I actually read it.
Uncensored.
Unapologetic.
Unfolded.

In the quiet of the library’s hush, he sits,  
A mind so sharp, a focus that never quits.  
His parents, pharmacists with dreams so high,  
Pressure to excel, to reach for the sky.  

He studies like the world depends on his gaze,  
Romance and relationships seem far away in his maze.  
Yet I gathered my courage, stepped forth with a plea,  
"Can we be friends?" I asked, hoping he’d see me.  

He nodded, a simple sure, a spark in his eye,  
Then I asked for his Insta, to catch a glimpse or try.  
But his feed is dry, almost as if he’s aloof,  
Like he doesn’t care, like he’s missing the proof.  

His friends call me "bhabi," a sister in law, a kin,  
They talk of me, but does he harbor within?  
Does he like or just talk about me in jest?  
Or is he simply focused, doing his best?  

Supportive chem teacher, she sees a spark,  
Encourages us both, brightening the dark.  
She told him to be kind, to treat me with care,  
And cheered me to talk, to show that I dare.  

Wednesday, he sat opposite, a moment so rare,  
I overheard a friend ask, "Is that her?" in the air.  
He speaks of me to friends, but the question remains —  
Does he like me, or is he just caught in his strains?  

In his silence, in his focus, is a story untold,  
A boy under pressure, ambitious and bold.  
Yet maybe, just maybe, beneath that steady guise,  
There’s a hint of a feeling that quietly lies.

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.

In the echoes of your silence,
I found a universe—
full of the words you never said,
the tears you never cried,
and the longing that hung heavy in the air.

I called out to you,
my voice cracking with hope,
but all that returned
were desperate echoes
lost in the space between us.

You stayed distant—
unmoved,
untouched by the storm
that raged inside me.

We were tangled—
in missed chances,
in words that came too late,
in love that never quite found its way.

I gave you everything,
poured it out like a river that couldn’t stop,
but you stood still.
Unaffected.
Unwilling.

In the end,
it wasn’t the things we said
that broke us.
It was the silence—
so loud,
so final.

Now we’re here,
still tethered by hearts too scared to speak,
stranded in the quiet,
held apart by all the things
we never found the courage to say.

I sat where the sea forgets the shore,
on a borrowed chair with bones to spare.
Time peeled the flesh I wore before—
but I still wait, with salt in the air.

I waited for love to come like rain,
for a voice to break the endless tide.
But silence came dressed up as pain,
and every wave just said: he lied.

Storms passed. Stars changed.
My shadow left before I knew.
The ocean rose, the moon looked strange—
but I stayed, as I always do.

Hope rots slow, like wood and skin.
But bones remember every ache.
The sea forgets, the world moves in,
yet I remain. For memory’s sake.

Our
       souls
                  are
                          the
                                 perfect
                      symbolism
                of
         tied
souls

Not just someone to hold my hand,
but to walk with me through marbled halls—
past paintings that whisper centuries,
beneath chandeliers humming old opera songs.

To sit beside me in velvet-red seats,
when the curtains rise on tragedy and jazz.
Who claps when the classical music swells to its peak
even if he doesn’t understand the raga,
just because I’m moved.

To take Polaroids of me mid-laugh,
to frame the soft, un-posed pieces
I often forget I have.
To bring me lilies and baby’s breath,
not because it’s Valentine’s,
but because he listened when I said,
“These are my favourites.”

To come to church,
not for the sermon,
but for me.
To sit in the quiet stained-glass stillness,
not believing the same things,
but believing in us.

To be patient when I unspool,
when my feelings tangle like old film reels.
To hike with me, sleep under stars,
smell like firewood and freedom.

To cook, even messily—
pasta overdone, toast a little burnt,
but with a smile made of effort.

To plant something and keep it alive.
To find joy in roots and green things.

To let vinyls fill our evenings,
crackling jazz and soft acoustics,
swaying barefoot in the kitchen.

To read my poems—really read them—
not just skim the metaphors,
but feel the ache beneath each line.
To hum the songs I play on my guitar,
even off-key,
just to harmonise with my heart.

To let me talk about emperors and wars,
ancient cities and revolutions,
and not just nod—
but ask,
“But why did that matter?”
So I can light up with the answer.

This is the kind of love I want.
Not flashy, not loud.
But curious.
Present.
Rooted like a garden,
melodic like jazz,
and sacred like Sunday.

In the quiet of the night, I felt it—
his pain, pressing heavy on my chest.
He didn’t say a word, but it hung between us,
thick in the air like unshed tears.

I was supposed to be his joy,
his first love, the light in his days.
But my words—careless, sharp—
cut him where I couldn’t see.
And I didn’t know, not really,
how much I’d hurt him
until I felt it echo inside me.

A silent ache—mine and his—
wrapped around my ribs like regret.
That night, I finally saw it:
what love can carry,
and how easily we break the things we hold dear.

Morning brought clarity,
gentle and cruel all at once.
And as the light crept in,
I saw my mistake not as a moment,
but a wound that lingered.

He was my first love,
the one who held my heart so gently.
And now, all I could do was watch
as he carried the weight I gave him.

If I could go back, I would—
unsay, undo, unhurt.
But love doesn’t always forgive
just because you finally understand.
And I’m left with this truth:
that love is fragile,
and words, once spoken,
can last far longer than we ever mean them to.

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.

It was morning
soft light
lazy air

me and my best friend
were sitting outside
half-awake, half-laughing
letting time stretch
between us like old denim

we didn’t know
we were sitting
on the edge of something
we’d remember later

and then—
you walked by

yellow t-shirt
sun-colored
soft around the shoulders
like the day hadn’t touched you yet

you didn’t look lost
you didn’t look rushed
but your eyes
found mine

not just a glance
not a “maybe”
not one of those
look-away-quick things

a pause
a breath
eight seconds
give or take
but it was long enough
for something to land in my chest
before i could name it

i looked away first
i think
but not before
you saw me
and i saw you seeing me

my best friend caught it
like best friends do
said, “he was looking at you.”
and i said, “yeah… we made eye contact.”
cool voice, hot face
trying not to let it stick

but then i added,
“he looks like my old crush.”
and it came out so fast
i almost believed
it meant nothing

but it did
a little

like the universe
had recycled a face
to test if i’d fall for it twice

we didn’t talk
no smile
no words
just passed through each other’s mornings
like strangers with history
we hadn’t lived yet

but he became
yellow t-shirt
in our private dictionary
a wordless name
for the kind of person
who makes you feel
something you weren’t planning to feel

and then—
the last day of school

i was tapping out
you were tapping in
our footsteps overlapped
just for a second
a small door opened
half-hinged in time

i looked back
you didn’t
or maybe you did
after i turned away

and i thought,
will i see him next year?
will this stay
just a story
between me and my best friend?

i never learned your name
but i remember
how the morning felt

and now—
when i see yellow
i don’t think of sunshine
or lemons
or flowers

i think of you
i think of almost
i think of
what it felt like
to be seen
just for a moment
and not look away

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?