I wore apathy like armor
but cracked every time you looked at me
like I was worth being seen.

Even now I blamed timing.
As if clocks are crueler than my own hesitation.
As if love didn’t stand right in front of me
and wait with open hands
as mine stayed tucked in pockets.

I convinced myself I was unworthy
before anyone else had the chance to.
I set fire to every almost
just to say “see, it was never going to last”
like that made it less my fault.

Still, I write this like it matters—
like this confession changes anything.
But all it does
is remind me
that I had everything
and still chose nothing.

I hate myself for this.
For the way I freeze
when all I want is to say
Stay. Please. Stay.
For the way I let silence
stand in for love
because I was too afraid
she wouldn’t echo it back.

I’ve lifted mountains for less.
Faced fire with bare hands.
But the idea of saying her name
with a question mark at the end?
It guts me.
It makes me feel small,
like the boy who never got picked,
still sitting in the dust
pretending he didn’t care.

There’s grace in everything I can’t reach—
her name feels too soft
for the kind of storm
she stirs in me.
I speak like I’m fine,
but every silence she leaves behind
echoes louder
than anything I’ve ever said.

She made me feel
like I could matter.
Like I was seen.
Like I wasn’t just passing through.

And now I’m the one ghosting myself—
watching my chances rot
on the vine
while I pretend
they weren’t ripe to begin with.

People say “just ask her.”
Like it’s nothing.
Like it’s not years of rejection
chained around my throat.
Like I didn’t already build
a thousand ways
she could say no
and mean it kindly—
which hurts worse, honestly.

I’m so exhausted
from being brave everywhere else
except here.
With her.
Like my courage runs out
the moment it matters most,
and all that’s left
is a boy with full lungs
and no voice.

And I know I’ll regret this.
I already do.
Because she’ll be gone.
And I’ll still be here—
writing poems
instead of living them.

You talked about leaving like it was just another errand,
like it was something you had to do—
not something you wanted.
Not something that would leave me standing here,
watching the space you used to fill.

I used to love space.
The vastness, the quiet,
the way it stretched on forever without needing anything back.
But now the stars remind me of you—
always there, always distant,
never mine.

I tell myself I was just passing through your life,
like a comet burning bright before fading.
Maybe I was never meant to matter.
Maybe you never even noticed I was there.

And still—
I hate that I miss you.
I hate that after all this time,
one short message can make my whole day.
I hate that you will never know.
And I hate that even if you did,
it wouldn’t change a thing.

I never minded the quiet.
The way the walls never asked for anything,
the way the night didn’t need me to speak.
I could sit with my own silence,
breathe in the stillness,
and call it enough.

Then you showed up.
Not loud, not demanding--just there.
And suddenly, the silence wasn’t peaceful,
it was just empty.

I started waiting for your voice
before I even knew I was listening.
I started looking for you in rooms
I knew you wouldn’t be in.

And now, without you,
the quiet feels heavier.
Like it knows what it's missing.
Like it’s waiting, too.

In the quiet hours before dawn,
a weight settles, uninvited, unnamed.
Days drift in slow-motion gray,
each breath heavy, each step rehearsed.

I learned to dance with shadows,
To find rhythm in the void.
Smiles painted on a weary canvas, Laughter echoing in empty halls.

Then you arrived—
a burst of color in my grayscale world,
a melody I never searched for
but somehow needed.
A spark in my endless night.

And now, you're gone.
The weight I once carried so easily
has doubled, pressed into my ribs.
Have the shadows always been this dark?
Has the silence always been this deafening?

I thought I knew sorrow,
thought I had mapped its edges,
But this grief is sharper, louder.
A pain with a familiar name.

So I sit with this ache—
learning to breathe,
learning to carry this weight,
learning to cope
without you.

The chair where you sat is still warm,
but the room has forgotten your voice.
The echoes have softened into dust,
settling in corners I cannot reach.

The morning does not knock the same way.
Its light does not ask for permission,
only spills itself across the floor,
searching for you.

Your name lingers in my throat,
a letter left unsent.
I fold it, once, twice—
but where could it go?

The streets carry on, unburdened.
Even the train you took does not look back.
Only I remain,
watching the last light fade,
pretending it might return.