Her chest feels tight,
Even dreams don’t feel right.
She still flinches when it gets dark at
Midnight.

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.

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.