I sometimes wonder if boys who wear specs feel love a little differently Not because they see less clearly, but because someone somewhere once helped them choose how they'd be seen It's a quiet sort of intimacy when she scrolls through your indecision, pauses, and says "this one suits you." And somehow in that moment it’s not just about specs. It’s about being understood gently and still accepted

Maybe it’s absurd to romanticize frame choices, but love has always lived in absurdities. In screenshots of shortlisted pairs. In a voice that says, "trust me on this one," and you do not just with glasses, but with things far deeper She doesn’t touch you, not really But she leaves traces in the shape of your reflection, in the way you begin to carry yourself, unknowingly echoing her taste

And even if she’s not yours, even if nothing’s ever said or claimed, there's something sacred about wearing what she picked. It’s a closeness unmeasured, a kind of nearness no label can hold. You walk into the world every day with something she once chose sitting quietly on your face. And maybe that's enough sometimes love is just the privilege of being seen before you've even figured out how to see yourself

And funny thing is, no one notices.

No one sees how you pause a second longer at the mirror not out of vanity, but memory. No one hears the silence you carry in your chest when you put those specs on, like you’re slipping into a version of yourself curated by someone else’s kindness. Someone who saw you not as you were, but as you could be.

There’s a kind of longing in that a longing without ache, without urgency. Just presence. A quiet respect for what was never yours to keep but always yours to carry.

And sometimes, I catch myself wondering—when she sees someone else now, does she ever recall that call, that chat, that frame? Does she ever think, “He really did choose what I picked”? Or was I just a passing moment in her day, while she became a permanent corner in mine?

But I never asked. That’s the thing about this kind of love it doesn’t need closure It’s made of choices, not conclusions. And that’s what makes it last longer than most.

Four walls …two bodies
Trapped words ...white noise.
A house on fire...
You... me … standing burning
Pretending the fire isn't roaring.

Sometimes, life is all about regrets
Regrets about the hearts we break
Regrets about the risks we take
Regrets about the friends we make
Regrets about the words we say
Regrets about the path we choose
Regrets about the things we lose
Regrets about the secrets we share
Regrets about the secrets we hear
Regrets about the promises we make
Regrets about the decision we take
Yet,
no  regrets
Is all we say.