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.

the uniform fits like habit.
quiet mornings,
the car hums beneath a grey sky.
the roads are familiar,
so is the silence.

there’s something in the way we move—
discipline,
precision,
the sharpness of every step.
we know what’s expected,
and we meet it,
without pause.

but some days,
the world feels like it’s pressing in,
and i wonder what it would be like
to step outside the lines.
just for a moment.
just to breathe.

we laugh like we’re supposed to,
but sometimes the words feel too tight.
the hours slip by,
and i’m not sure where the day goes—
only that it keeps pulling me forward.

there are moments,
flickers of something softer,
when i let go,
if only for a second.
and then i pull myself back—
always back,
into the rhythm,
the expectation,
the silent promise.

maybe i’ll figure it out one day.
maybe not.
but for now,
i’m still here.
holding on,
waiting for the next moment
to let go again.

in the specs stand where echoes of laughter once danced,
where boots struck pavement in perfect unison,
where fridays were more than just days-
i found a family.

week after week, you stood before us,
voices steady, unwavering,
teaching us not just knots and lashings,
but how to hold things together
when everything felt like it was coming undone.

judith ma’am, turning her head to laugh
before saying “semula” with that familiar firmness.
sharmaine ma’am, barely stifling a smile,
regaining composure the moment she faced us again.
lorraine ma’am, grinning, watching,
sometimes giving up and walking away laughing—
because some mistakes were too ridiculous to fix.

rachel ma’am, ever watchful, ever strong,
cancis ma’am, sharp and disciplined, never letting us falter,
zoe ma’am, a quiet strength in the chaos.
you led us through drills and commands,
through the sweat and strain of pt,
through the endless practice of knots and lashings—
each lesson not just a skill, but a mark you left on us.

“semula,” you’d say, again and again,
until every motion became second nature,
until discipline was not just a word, but a part of who we were.
and we grumbled, exhausted, but we obeyed—
because we knew you only wanted the best for us.

and then the camp—
the sleepless night, the aching limbs,
the whispered jokes in the dark,
the last moments before the goodbye
we weren’t ready for.

i still hear your voices in the silence of the parade square,
feel your presence in the knots i tie,
see your footsteps in every drill i command.
but when i turn around, you are not there.

i just want to stand beside you again.
to hear your laughter, your orders, your teasing remarks.
to run one more lap, do one more push-up,
to relive one more friday under your watchful eyes.

but time moves forward, and so must i.
maybe i will never hear you call out my name again,
never have you fix my uniform, never see you in the ranks beside me.

but maybe, just maybe,
i can carry you forward—
not in presence,
but in the strength you left behind.

I fell in love with him.
Not halfway, not in pieces—
fully, blindly,
with all the hope I had left.

We could’ve worked.
We should’ve.
We had every reason to become something
beautiful,
loud,
and lasting.

But love,
no matter how real,
cannot carry two people alone.

He gave up.
He didn’t want to try.
And all the things that should’ve happened—
they stayed dreams,
never got the chance to breathe.

I still love him.
I always will.
But I will not let that love
become my cage.

I won’t keep breaking my own heart
for someone
who didn’t even reach out to hold it.

Because it doesn’t matter
what we could’ve been—
when he chose not to be.

I love him,
but I won’t let him destroy me.

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.

in the stitched seams of navy blue,
beneath crests we both earned,
we stand —
not too close,
not too far.

your smile is easy.
mine tries to be.
between us, a thousand things unsaid,
threads pulling,
hands never reaching.

i joke,
you laugh,
we speak in circles —
around what we dare not name.

the world says there are lines,
senior and junior,
instructor and cadet,
and i pretend
the lines don’t matter
until they do.

i wonder if you see it too —
the way the air shifts
when you look at me,
the way my heart trips
then pretends it didn’t.

but this is real life,
not a story,
not a dream,
and some walls
are not meant to be climbed.

so i hold the moment,
press it carefully into memory,
and when you turn away,
i smile like nothing ever happened.

and maybe nothing did.
maybe everything did.

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.

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.

in the society i live in,
where a size 4 is too big,
where beauty is a box
i must squeeze myself into—
or be cast aside.

i am told i am wrong
for being myself.
so i learn to shrink,
to mold myself into something acceptable,
to erase the edges of who i am
until i blend into the background.

i laugh at jokes i don’t find funny,
like the things they like,
speak only when necessary,
never too loud,
never too much.

i paint my face with foundation,
layer by layer,
hoping someone will see me
and call me beautiful.

i just want to be myself.
but how?
how do i do that when i’ve already lost myself?
i don’t know how to be myself.
who is she?
where is she?
will i ever find her again?

boys will be boys.
they play with me,
toy with my emotions,
then toss me aside
when the thrill of the chase is over.

and yet, i still fall.
for the one everyone warns me about—
the football player,
the *******,
the star quarterback.
the one who will never see me
the way i see him.

i hope, i hope,
maybe one day, he’ll realize i’m the one.
maybe he’ll look at me the way i look at him.
but this isn’t a movie.
there’s no grand confession,
no moment where he chooses me.

true love is rare.
and i am not the exception.

i have spent so long trying to be enough,
trying to fit into their world,
trying to be seen,
to be loved.

but i am done shrinking.
done waiting.
done searching for something
that was never meant to find me.

maybe i will never be the girl in the fairytale.
maybe i will never have the love in the movies.
maybe i will never be the one he chooses.

but maybe, just maybe,
i can learn to choose myself.

I like you.
That’s what I should have said
when your eyes met mine
and lingered—
just long enough
for the truth to rise,
then fall
back down my throat.

I told you about my day instead.
Laughed too loud.
Changed the subject.
Let the silence pass
like a train I could’ve boarded
but didn’t.

I like you.
Not in the way people like sunsets
or songs on the radio.
I like you
in the way the tide reaches for the shore
even when it knows
it can’t stay.

You made something inside me quiet—
not dull,
not numb,
but peaceful.
Like I didn’t have to try so hard
to be seen.
Like I already was.

But I waited.
And waiting turned to watching.
And watching turned to letting go.

Now you laugh with someone else,
and I sit with the ache
of words unsaid.

I like you.
That’s all.
That’s everything.
And I carry it
like a secret that never got
to become
a beginning.