I stand where the waves don’t crash,
but I still flinch like they do.
Like I’m bracing for something
you haven’t done
but I feel anyway.

You’re beside me,
but half of me’s studying the silence,
looking for signs
you’re slipping away slow.

You hold me sometimes
but I don’t feel held.
You care,
but in ways I don’t always recognise.
And I don’t know if that’s a you thing or a me thing.
Maybe both.

I smile like this is calm,
like I’m not overthinking the way you said “goodnight.”
Like I’m not stuck rereading your energy
instead of your texts.

I crave chaos if it means honesty.
Messy, raw honesty.
But we dance around it
like saying how we really feel
might end something we never fully started.

You say I matter
but I keep looking for proof in moments
that shouldn’t need proving.

And I hate that I miss you
even when you’re close.
That I question my worth
just trying to love you the way I do.

I want to tell you all this.
But when I look at you,
my throat forgets how to carry the weight.
So I joke.
I laugh.
I turn pain into punchlines
because it’s easier than saying,
“I don’t know if I’m enough for you.”

This isn’t a goodbye.
It’s just me, letting you see the tide
I’ve been standing in alone.

Because this?
This is my beach.
Where I love you deeply
but fear you shallow.
Where I wait for your waves
while drowning in mine.

And maybe if you read this,
you’ll stop standing on the sand
and step into the water with me.