I hate myself for this.
For the way I freeze
when all I want is to say
Stay. Please. Stay.
For the way I let silence
stand in for love
because I was too afraid
she wouldn’t echo it back.

I’ve lifted mountains for less.
Faced fire with bare hands.
But the idea of saying her name
with a question mark at the end?
It guts me.
It makes me feel small,
like the boy who never got picked,
still sitting in the dust
pretending he didn’t care.

There’s grace in everything I can’t reach—
her name feels too soft
for the kind of storm
she stirs in me.
I speak like I’m fine,
but every silence she leaves behind
echoes louder
than anything I’ve ever said.

She made me feel
like I could matter.
Like I was seen.
Like I wasn’t just passing through.

And now I’m the one ghosting myself—
watching my chances rot
on the vine
while I pretend
they weren’t ripe to begin with.

People say “just ask her.”
Like it’s nothing.
Like it’s not years of rejection
chained around my throat.
Like I didn’t already build
a thousand ways
she could say no
and mean it kindly—
which hurts worse, honestly.

I’m so exhausted
from being brave everywhere else
except here.
With her.
Like my courage runs out
the moment it matters most,
and all that’s left
is a boy with full lungs
and no voice.

And I know I’ll regret this.
I already do.
Because she’ll be gone.
And I’ll still be here—
writing poems
instead of living them.