I was going to tell him.
I had the words lined up,
carefully—
not too much,
not too soon.
Just enough truth
to let him know
I cared.

And then he said
he had a crush.

He smiled when he said it.
Didn’t say her name right away,
but I knew.
I knew in the way his voice changed,
softened
for someone who wasn’t me.

So I stepped back.
Swallowed everything
with a laugh
and a nod
and some practiced version of support.
Because I didn’t want to be that girl—
the one who turns confession
into competition.
The one who makes it awkward.
The one who ruins the moment
by needing too much.

Then came the photobooth.
Four frames on her phone,
faces close,
hands nearly touching.
She showed me like it was sweet,
like I hadn’t been
on the edge of something
that never got the chance
to begin.

So I gushed.
Said he looked happy.
Said she was pretty.
Said all the right things
with a voice that barely held.

What I didn’t say was—
I liked him too.
What I didn’t say was—
I was just about to speak
when the door closed.

And now I carry
an almost
like a ghost,
quiet and heavy,
because I chose grace
over honesty.
Because I thought
stepping back
would hurt less
than reaching out
and not being met.

But it still hurts.
Just…
quieter.