I like you.
That’s what I should have said
when your eyes met mine
and lingered—
just long enough
for the truth to rise,
then fall
back down my throat.

I told you about my day instead.
Laughed too loud.
Changed the subject.
Let the silence pass
like a train I could’ve boarded
but didn’t.

I like you.
Not in the way people like sunsets
or songs on the radio.
I like you
in the way the tide reaches for the shore
even when it knows
it can’t stay.

You made something inside me quiet—
not dull,
not numb,
but peaceful.
Like I didn’t have to try so hard
to be seen.
Like I already was.

But I waited.
And waiting turned to watching.
And watching turned to letting go.

Now you laugh with someone else,
and I sit with the ache
of words unsaid.

I like you.
That’s all.
That’s everything.
And I carry it
like a secret that never got
to become
a beginning.