I said I’d take it slow—
but my heart never learned pacing.
It jumps ahead,
writes your name in the margins
before I’ve even turned the page.

You’re not the loud kind of beautiful—
you’re the quiet type,
the “wait, who’s that?”
the kind that walks past
and leaves my chest buzzing like a cheap speaker
turned all the way up
on a love song I wasn’t ready for.

I try not to stare.
So I listen instead.
To your voice,
your laugh,
your "random disappearance thingy,"
like it’s Morse code
for maybe, maybe not.

You don’t know it,
but I write about you in lowercase
because you feel gentle.
Like a song I play at night
and pretend doesn’t mean anything.

I don’t need a fairytale.
I just want a chance.
To be someone you look at
like I’m not just another friend
in the blurry background of your life.

And if not—
well.
At least you’ll always live here,
between the lines,
in poems I’ll pretend aren’t about you.

She speaks in song lyrics and cursed memes,
in lowercase confessions and digital dreams.
He shows up like sunlight through tree branch cracks,
never all at once—just enough to come back.

They don’t talk about it.
Of course they don’t.
It’s a slow burn—
the kind where eye contact feels like shouting.
The kind where silence hums with
"maybe"
and
"don’t ruin this."

She loves him in margins,
in pauses between group laughter,
when he treats her the same as the rest—
and somehow that’s what makes her feel safest.
Not in the spotlight.
Not on a pedestal.
Just… seen.
In the quiet way that matters most.

She writes poems about him.
And songs.
And little sentences that break like waves
on the edges of her hope.

He?
He exists.
Maybe he knows.
Maybe he will.

And until then,
She sits under the weight of everything unspoken,
holding her heart like it’s
still deciding whether to whisper
or scream.