There is so much I wanted to tell you—
but I didn’t.
Not because I didn’t feel it,
but because I felt it too much.
I’ve carried conversations with you
in the quietest corners of my mind,
where you always listened,
and I always spoke.
I wanted to say how your smile
messed with my heartbeat.
How your presence made the world
a little softer, a little warmer.
But I stayed quiet.
Because silence felt safer
than the risk of breaking what little we had.
Because I didn’t want to lose
the only version of you I could hold.
I watched you laugh with others,
while my heart whispered poems
it never dared deliver.
I wanted to ask
if you ever felt it too —
that invisible string pulling gently
when our eyes met in passing.
But I never asked.
Because I’m the silent kind of lover —
the kind who writes your name in thoughts,
not texts.
The kind who chooses
distance over damage,
daydreams over disappointment.
And even now,
I speak to you
through stars,
through wind,
through words you'll never read.
Because some love stories
don’t need to be spoken
to be true.

It was just a hallway,
just a crowd,
just a moment like any other —
until it wasn’t.
You walked in,
and the air felt heavier
or lighter — I couldn’t tell.
But something inside me
forgot how to be still.
My heart,
usually shy and quiet,
started writing verses
against my ribs.
Not words,
but rhythm —
your rhythm.
You didn’t notice,
but my world
stood up in attention.
As if my soul whispered,
“There… that one.”
Your eyes didn’t meet mine,
not then.
But I saw enough to know —
you weren’t just anyone.
You were a question
I’d spend years trying to answer.
That day,
I didn’t fall in love.
I remembered it.
Something ancient in me stirred,
something soft,
something that said,
"You’ve known him before.
And now, here he is again."
And I smiled —
without reason,
without knowing,
without fear.
Because when the right soul enters the room,
your body doesn’t ask why.
It just begins to glow.