Multiple people stood around us,
but somehow,
I only noticed you.
Your voice
that's what pulled me in.
What is the word?
Love?
Maybe.
But I was too small,
too insecure to be noticed.
My low self-esteem built walls
around words I never got to say.
If anything,
I was Marinette,
and you were Adrien
my mind replaying every scene
where you'd look my way.
My head couldn't stop thinking about you,
my nose couldn't stop chasing your perfume,
and my eyes
they lived for those six-day intervals
when I might see you again.
But did I even know what love was?
"It's just a crush," I said.
But was it?
I lived with you in my heart
for six long years
yearning for you to know
how my heart craved yours,
how my hands ached
to be held by yours.
But how would you ever know that?
When I finally gathered the courage to tell you,
your "no" hit me like a brick to the chest.
It was small,
but it shattered me.
My heart wanted to rewind time
maybe I could've said it better,
looked prettier,
been more.
But all I heard was
no.
and the echo of it
stung louder than rejection itself.
What even is love?
Is it six years of wanting
and only three months of having?
Was I obsessed?
No...
I was in love.
But I ended things.
I did.
I gave short replies,
withdrew,
let silence grow where love once bloomed.
You craved my attention
and I starved you of it.
You reached out
and I flinched.
Maybe I was scared.
Scared it was too good to be true.
Scared I'd finally gotten
what I always wanted
and didn't know how to hold it.
I felt suffocated,
like my lungs forgot how to breathe.
But the second I let go,
my world collapsed.
I never fell out of love.
I just lost the courage to stay.
"Oh goodness," I whispered,
"what have I done?"
And then there was that night
when I couldn't sleep.
You told me stories,
your voice soft and sleepy,
like warmth through a screen.
And then there was that night
the one where sleep refused to come.
You were always the early bird,
and I was always the one
still awake, chasing 2am thoughts.
That night, you said,
"you shouldn't fall asleep alone."
Your voice was half-laughter, half-care
soft, like the quiet hum between songs.
You told me stories,
your tone dipping and rising
like waves against the shore.
And when I started drifting,
you said, almost shyly,
"I recorded something for you... just in case I fall asleep first."
It was Laufey's 'From the Start.'
You said it reminded you of us
that slow, hesitant kind of love
where no one says it first,
but everything else already does.
You pressed play.
And in the static between your breath and the song,
I swear I heard your heart speak.
The melody spilled through the phone
like a secret I wasn't supposed to hear.
It wasn't perfect
your voice cracked,
you stumbled on a few words,
but somehow,
that made it feel even more real.
And when the song ended,
you whispered,
"Goodnight, B."
Like you were tucking me in
through the screen.
The call disconnected,
but I stayed there,
staring at the ceiling,
listening to the echo of your voice
the only lullaby
that's ever made me cry.
And then there was that day
the day we stopped talking about it
and almost lived it.
We'd joked,
blushed,
always circling around the idea
like scared kids daring each other to jump.
You wanted to kiss me
and I wanted to too,
but I was always the one who ran,
hiding behind my own "not yet."
That afternoon felt different though,
like even the sun was holding its breath.
You looked at me,
and the world fell into a quiet kind of waiting.
My body forgot every rule it lived by.
I leaned in first
barely.
A heartbeat of courage.
Our lips met.
A peck.
Awkward.
Small.
But the silence after
was louder than thunder.
We couldn't look at each other,
our hearts racing
like we'd done something illegal
like love was a secret
the world couldn't handle.
Then we walked away,
pretending it was nothing,
knowing deep down
it was everything.
What happened to our 3 a.m. calls and laughter?
What happened to you wanting to kiss me
until we couldn't breathe anymore?
What happened to you promising
you'd show up at my wedding
if it wasn't you I was marrying?
I guess we'll never know.
Would I ever love again?
I don't know.
But if I do,
I hope it feels half as real
as the love that broke me.