I keep catching myself
thinking about this one thing,
soft, perfect,
the kind of comfort i shouldnt miss this much.

i picture it in my arms,
not imagined,
not far away,
but real, something i can feel breathing,
like its close enough to keep forever.

and i know exactly
what I’m wishing for.
not just a stuffy,
but my stuffy.

the one that feels
a little too perfect to exist,
except, you do.

you make the world softer,
like morning light through blinds.

yet somehow heavier too..
like a weight i dont want to set down
just to prove my strength

every laugh with you
fills the cracks I thought would stay forever,
but loving you also opens doors
to fears i've nailed shut.

i hold your hand
and feel so soft yet breakable,
like glass wrapped in velvet.
you are the calm and the storm,
and I am always both grateful and afraid.

still
i choose the risk,
the way my chest twists around your name.
because even though its complicated,
you are worth it.

The pills smooth the static,
quiet the rattling wires in my chest.
For a while,
I remember what it feels like to breathe without splinters.

But the bell rings,
the halls swarm,
and suddenly the air is teeth again.
every glance is a spotlight,
every sound, a hammer.

My calm dissolves
under fluorescent ceilings an hour at a time—
until the medicine feels
like water poured
into. a. burning. house.
...
I swallow each dose
like a prayer,
but school drowns it out,
and I’m left wondering
if healing is meant to vanish
the moment I walk through those doors.

I drag myself through the weeks and the noise,
holding a bottle that promises
more than it delivers.

Maybe it’s me.
Maybe nothing’s enough to quiet a storm
that keeps finding new ways to break.

and so i keep swallowing,
keep hoping,
keep sitting in classrooms
where my heartbeat is louder
than the teacher’s voice—
pretending the medicine is working,
pretending i am too.

It waits in corners,
a whisper dressed in shadows,
calling me back
with promises of silence.

The thought presses sharp
against the edge of my mind,
like a blade I no longer hold
but still remember.

Some nights it hums
like a song I once knew by heart,
soft, dangerous,
asking me to sing along.

But my hands stay empty.
My skin stays whole.
I breathe through the ache
and let the music pass.

I will not dance
to that rhythm again.
Even if it circles me forever,
I keep walking forward.

i swore i was steady,
that i’d built walls high enough
to quiet the wanting.
i told myself
i could learn to let go.

but last night,
you spoke,
and every word
was gravity.

suddenly,
i wasn’t standing still anymore.
i was tumbling—
the way i did at the start,
when even the sound of your name
could set my pulse off-beat.

you laughed,
and it lit me up
like the first time
i realized i could never unsee you.

and here i am,
caught in your orbit,
dizzy with the sweetness
of rediscovery.

i don’t know if you know it,
but i’m falling,
again.

she’s there,
hands trembling on the screen,
heart heavier with each second.

no reply, no sign, no sound...
just the weight of waiting,
the ache of being unseen
by the one she’s already given
so much of herself to.

i read your message
and then i looked away
because the truth is,
i don’t know what to do with it.

it’s easier to stay silent
than to admit i’m tangled
in my own mess
and maybe i’m scared
to break what we have
by saying too much, or, not enough.

i typed words i wanted you to hear
but my phone stayed quiet
like the space between us
is louder than anything i can say.

i’m here, raw and waiting
but maybe you don’t see me
or maybe you don’t want to.

and that thought feels like a knife
twisting slowly
in the middle of my chest.

if hiccups mean
you’re being missed,
you must be out there
with water up your nose
and upside-down,
holding your breath,
wondering why it won’t stop.

it’s me.
my fault.
i miss you too much
and too often..
and i don’t plan on stopping.
..
you must be
hiccuping
to death by now.

i miss you
like it’s my job
like it’s rent due
like missing you
might make you show up.

it won’t.
but maybe
you’ll feel it.
just once

if i said you were just another boy,
id be mistaken.
ive made countless pieces of art just trying to portray my sad teenage feelings about you.

ive written many poems.
ive written 4 songs.
and i made a whole piece of abstract art for you.

ive done those all because i had too.

or, so it felt like.

if i dont get my feelings about you out the moment i feel them,
i feel hopeless.
im reminded this is most likely a one-way love.

if i dont get my feelings about you out the moment i feel them,
i feel despair.
im reminded im a chaotic person who doesnt deserve your soul.

i sound dramatic,
i know.

i havent gone for you yet because im scared.

honestly.
..
im scared because youre not just another boy.

the other boys dont talk to me,
the other boys dont look at me,
the other boys dont listen to me,
the other boys dont make me laugh,
not the way you do.

youre not just another boy to me,
youre the only one i want.

Its the time that everyone loves.

..

however,
im reminded of a less beautiful feeling

rather than roses and letters,
i sit alone and watch all the pretty girls get their beautiful flowers and beautiful letters.

..

jealousy?
i dont know..

more than jealousy?
i dont know..

whatever it is,
i need to get over it.
its not my choice,
it never was.

tell me, truthfully,
did you really even care?
say it with your chest.

..

it felt like you were never there.

tell me, truthfully,
did you ever really hear me?
my weeping and self-doubt..
i know you never paid a thought.

i cried over you.

i exhausted myself for you.

i contemplated everything.

..

but i did it for you..

maybe it was me,
******* up and wrecking things.
i know i was broken,
i still am,
but you never tried to fix me.

im so sorry,
you probably didnt even care,
why should you have?

it was my fault all along.

My tired eyes,
a mix of grey and blue,
theyve grown so tired of all the lies.

oh if only you knew,
oh if only you saw.

saw the damage youve done to me,
you make it seem like i must follow your every law.
if i dont, youll just leave me alone.
youll just leave me be.

you say you love me,
tell me,
what does love even mean to you?

Dear [boy I wish I could send this to],

There are a hundred things I could say, and I’ve started them all in my head a thousand times.
Sometimes I think I’ll actually say them out loud.
And sometimes I just hope you’ll read between the lines of everything I don’t say.

But here’s the thing:
you make it impossible not to feel something.
Something slow, something wild, something like watching the stars blink to life when you didn’t even realize the sky was dark.
It’s quiet and loud all at once, like you.

I notice things.
Like how you talk when you’re passionate about something.
How your voice softens when you’re being kind.
How you never put me in the spotlight, but still manage to make me feel like I’m seen.
You don’t even know how rare that is.

I don’t want to scare you.
I’m not asking for anything big or dramatic.
I just want a moment.
A moment where I can be honest, where I can say:
I really love you.
More than I meant to. More than I can make jokes about.
Enough that I write about you, dream about you,
and hope maybe—someday—you’ll feel even a fraction of this about me.

But for now, I’ll keep this letter here.
Unsent. Unspoken.
Just… felt.

Love,
[a broken girl]

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.