Dear You,

I used to check if you were online on TikTok,
almost sent you memes,
then remembered the day you broke something,
and stayed silent instead.

I helped you through your breakup,
listened while your heart cracked open.

I watched shows at night,
lovers finding each other on screen,
and wondered quietly when my time would come—
if it would ever be with you.

Then you said, “what if we date each other?”
Morning came: “Sorry, I thought you knew I was joking.”

I cried to my friends, smiled at you, pretended.
Maybe I mattered little to you,
but you were never just a joke to me.

—Me

Dear Diary,
I think I lost the kid in me.
The one who only worried about canteen queues,
CCA trainings,
and which friend to sit with at recess.

Now the weight is different.
Heavier.
Quieter.

And I don’t think she’ll ever come back—
stuck in the past,
just like those photos we never look at anymore.

There’s no lightning bolt of love,
More like a drizzling leak you don’t even notice,
Until you’re gasping for air,
Suddenly and irrevocably aware that you love him.
And once you realise that,
There’s no going back.
You might not heal even years later,
But remember fondly of the times
That have passed,
And will never return.

it’s black.
not pink, not red—
nothing loud
just there
wrapped around his wrist
like she belongs there too.

he calls her princess
and i laugh like it’s nothing
but it claws at me
quietly.
softly.
completely.

i’m tired.
tired from staying back
every day of the week,
dragging my body through hours
that feel like they’re crushing me
just to keep up,
just to hold it all together.
but even when i’m doing everything,
i’m still not enough
to be the ******* his mind.

i see him playing with it—
that black rubber band,
twisting it like second nature.
does she know
she’s wrapped around his wrist
like a secret he doesn’t want to let go?

it’s nothing,
just a rubber band.
but it holds more than hair.
it holds the place
i never got to have.

and i—
i hold silence,
and late nights,
and tired eyes
that still look for him
when they should be resting.

can’t keep writing about him.
But I do.
In every quiet line.
In every almost.
In every ache I try to name with prettier words.

I wish he’d leave my mind gently.
Like a tide that pulls back without taking the shore.
But he lingers.
In glances I remember too clearly.
In songs I can’t listen to anymore.

I never told him.
I never said a word.
So he never hurt me—
not on purpose.
But somehow,
I still feel bruised.

And I write,
because I don’t know what else to do with the feeling.
It has to go somewhere.
So it spills into poems
where he becomes everything
he never actually was.

He’s not my muse.
But I don’t know how to stop pretending he is.

I try.
I do.
I start poems about the sky,
about music,
about anything else.

But somehow,
he always finds his way back in—
between the pauses,
under the metaphors,
just out of reach.

I want to stop.
I really do.

But letting go isn’t loud.
It’s not one big moment.
It’s a quiet decision
I keep making
every day I write less about him.

One line at a time.
One breath.
One bruise.
One page.

Maybe one day
I’ll write without thinking of him at all.

But tonight,
he’s still here.
And I’m still trying
to find my way out.

Everything was going smoothly.
Second semester.
The days blurred in warm tones—
laughter between classes,
grades I could be proud of,
a quiet crush that felt like mine to keep.

He wasn’t from my school,
but somehow he slipped into my world
like he belonged there.

I liked him.
Not in a loud way.
Just enough for my heart to flutter
when his name lit up my screen.

I never said anything.
Didn’t want to make things weird.
Didn’t think I had to.

Then she showed me his story.
A smile. A girl. A caption with too many hearts.
His crush.
Maybe his girlfriend.

My stomach dipped.
Not a fall, just a slow, sinking ache.
I laughed.
Gushed.
Said, “They’re so cute together.”

Played the part.
The supportive friend.

And later—
texted him.

“Happy for you :)
You two look great.”

Hit send.
Put the phone down.
Stared at the ceiling
like maybe it had answers.

It wasn’t jealousy,
not really.
It was the kind of sadness
that doesn’t even cry—
just sits in your chest,
dull and heavy.

The kind where you feel
like you should cry,
but you don’t.
Because it’s your fault.
You never said anything.

You were so busy playing the friend,
you forgot how to be honest.
Now it’s too late.

Everything was going smoothly.
And maybe it still is.
Just not for me.

I was going to tell him.
I had the words lined up,
carefully—
not too much,
not too soon.
Just enough truth
to let him know
I cared.

And then he said
he had a crush.

He smiled when he said it.
Didn’t say her name right away,
but I knew.
I knew in the way his voice changed,
softened
for someone who wasn’t me.

So I stepped back.
Swallowed everything
with a laugh
and a nod
and some practiced version of support.
Because I didn’t want to be that girl—
the one who turns confession
into competition.
The one who makes it awkward.
The one who ruins the moment
by needing too much.

Then came the photobooth.
Four frames on her phone,
faces close,
hands nearly touching.
She showed me like it was sweet,
like I hadn’t been
on the edge of something
that never got the chance
to begin.

So I gushed.
Said he looked happy.
Said she was pretty.
Said all the right things
with a voice that barely held.

What I didn’t say was—
I liked him too.
What I didn’t say was—
I was just about to speak
when the door closed.

And now I carry
an almost
like a ghost,
quiet and heavy,
because I chose grace
over honesty.
Because I thought
stepping back
would hurt less
than reaching out
and not being met.

But it still hurts.
Just…
quieter.