some days i still miss him.
not even the way he touched me
or the way we laughed
or the way we argued
like we were the only two people
who’d ever been 16 and heartbroken.
but i miss the us that lived between homework and hallway glances,
the version of me who thought love was
"he blocks you but still cares."

he made me feel like a girl worth breaking.
and i kept writing poems
like maybe if i got the words right,
he’d come back.

but now there’s you.
also an N.
also a mystery.
but your silence feels softer.
like a sentence left unfinished
instead of a door slammed shut.

you’re a nerd too.
quiet but not invisible.
your ambition lives in your eyes
and the way you talk about football
like it’s something holy.
i want to sit next to you on the pitch,
ask questions i already know the answers to,
just to hear you explain them.

i don’t know what i feel.
i just know i still think of him
when feathers fall from nowhere.
and i think of you
when i pick up my pen
and start over.

They called me rude,
disrespectful,
bold.
But all I did was hold up
a mirror in a classroom
that only ever showed
the filtered angles
of history.

Yes, I’m the girl
who called Gandhi a ‘pick me’.
Because someone had to say it.

Three satyagrahas,
and only one worked.
Salt was his only seasoning of success.
But he still acted like he invented
morality.

A fast unto death—
how is that not dramatic?
But if I raise my voice in a debate,
I'm the hysterical one?
Please.

You want to talk self-control,
but ignore how he slept beside
young girls
as some twisted, spiritual experiment—
trying to test his strength
or his shame?
That’s not peace.
That’s a power trip
dressed in a dhoti.

And still—
I’m the one scolded
for “slandering”
a figure we never even saw
in full light.
Your history books
hid the shadows.

But me and my friend—
we studied the margins,
read between the lines,
asked why truth is only allowed
in black and white.

So yes.
Write it in the yearbook,
pin it to the wall:
I’m the girl who called Gandhi a pick me.
Not because I hate history—
but because I actually read it.
Uncensored.
Unapologetic.
Unfolded.

I sat where the sea forgets the shore,
on a borrowed chair with bones to spare.
Time peeled the flesh I wore before—
but I still wait, with salt in the air.

I waited for love to come like rain,
for a voice to break the endless tide.
But silence came dressed up as pain,
and every wave just said: he lied.

Storms passed. Stars changed.
My shadow left before I knew.
The ocean rose, the moon looked strange—
but I stayed, as I always do.

Hope rots slow, like wood and skin.
But bones remember every ache.
The sea forgets, the world moves in,
yet I remain. For memory’s sake.

i noticed you
for months—

in the hallways,
in the classrooms,
in the soft spaces between bells
where nothing big ever happens
except maybe
you.

you passed me once
and i remember thinking,
he looks nice,
but i didn’t do anything about it—
not yet.

then came may,
and something in the air shifted
or maybe it was just me
finally listening to the way
my heart leaned toward yours
without asking permission.

i told my best friend
about how you might be
a maybe worth chasing.
and it took me
a week
and five almosts
to finally walk in your direction.

monday came
like a dare.
i said, i’m doing it today.
we walked—
me, my courage, and my best friend
who peeled off into the silent library,
behind glass walls,
where she could still watch me
from a distance
like a quiet lifeline.

i said,
“hey, can i talk to you outside?”
and you followed—
no hesitation.

while we were walking
i looked at my best friend for help
through the glass wall,
and
through the reflection
i saw your face.
and god,
you were smiling.
like i wasn’t a stranger
but someone you’d already
been waiting for.

we stood in the courtyard
and i asked if we could be friends
like it wasn’t the scariest thing
i’d said all year.

you said “sure”
and smiled,
and the whole courtyard
felt lighter.

i asked if we could have lunch.
you said you had lessons,
and i nodded
like my heart wasn’t already
writing a story about us.

then i asked,
“what about tomorrow?”
you said, “depends on your timetable.”
you listened as i read it out loud,
as if my voice
mattered to you
even for a moment.

Then you paused—
just a flicker—
like maybe you had time,
or maybe you didn’t,
or maybe you were thinking
about exams,
or maybe
you were just being gentle.

“nah, i’ve got lessons then too,”
you said.
and i nodded,
like that didn’t quietly
deflate something
small and hopeful inside me.

“do you use insta?”
i asked.
and you said “yeah”
and typed your name into my phone
with the calm of someone
who didn’t know
they were the center
of someone else’s courage.

and then—
typical me—
i realised i didn’t know your name.
so i asked.
you said “niy.”
i stuck out my hand,
said “i’m syn*,”
like this was a business deal,
not a soft beginning.

later, i told my best friend about the handshake.
my best friend laughed,
“how formal of you, syn*,”
and we both did.
but what she didn’t see
was how loud my heart was,
how that handshake
held everything
i’d never said out loud.

because i had passed you
so many times before.
but this time,
i stopped.
i spoke.
i tried.
and for once,
you saw me.
not just in passing—
but really,
truly.

and that,
was enough.
for now.

You said
you’re not looking for anything right now,
and I nodded like it made sense.
Like it didn’t rearrange the hope
I hadn’t even finished building yet.

I smiled —
not because I was okay,
but because I didn’t know
how to be anything else.

I didn’t cry.
Not because it didn’t hurt,
but because the tears felt too big
for something that was never mine
to begin with.

I muted the songs that reminded me of you,
scrolled past things I wanted to send,
laughed when your name came up
like it didn’t pull something
just beneath the skin.

I think I made peace with it
a little too quickly.
Turned my disappointment
into politeness,
like maybe if I didn’t make it real,
it wouldn’t have to stay.

You were a soft almost,
a quiet what-if,
a maybe I didn’t get to keep.

And no —
I never cried.
But maybe I should’ve.

Because not everything that hurts
has to be loud.
Some heartbreaks
just sit there,
unspoken.

It was morning
soft light
lazy air

me and my best friend
were sitting outside
half-awake, half-laughing
letting time stretch
between us like old denim

we didn’t know
we were sitting
on the edge of something
we’d remember later

and then—
you walked by

yellow t-shirt
sun-colored
soft around the shoulders
like the day hadn’t touched you yet

you didn’t look lost
you didn’t look rushed
but your eyes
found mine

not just a glance
not a “maybe”
not one of those
look-away-quick things

a pause
a breath
eight seconds
give or take
but it was long enough
for something to land in my chest
before i could name it

i looked away first
i think
but not before
you saw me
and i saw you seeing me

my best friend caught it
like best friends do
said, “he was looking at you.”
and i said, “yeah… we made eye contact.”
cool voice, hot face
trying not to let it stick

but then i added,
“he looks like my old crush.”
and it came out so fast
i almost believed
it meant nothing

but it did
a little

like the universe
had recycled a face
to test if i’d fall for it twice

we didn’t talk
no smile
no words
just passed through each other’s mornings
like strangers with history
we hadn’t lived yet

but he became
yellow t-shirt
in our private dictionary
a wordless name
for the kind of person
who makes you feel
something you weren’t planning to feel

and then—
the last day of school

i was tapping out
you were tapping in
our footsteps overlapped
just for a second
a small door opened
half-hinged in time

i looked back
you didn’t
or maybe you did
after i turned away

and i thought,
will i see him next year?
will this stay
just a story
between me and my best friend?

i never learned your name
but i remember
how the morning felt

and now—
when i see yellow
i don’t think of sunshine
or lemons
or flowers

i think of you
i think of almost
i think of
what it felt like
to be seen
just for a moment
and not look away

I handed you my heart
like a glass still warm from holding tea —
not boiling, not begging,
just honest.

You took it gently,
like someone afraid to leave fingerprints
on something that wasn’t theirs.

You said you weren’t ready.
That love, right now,
would feel like a detour
when you’re still drawing the map.

And I said okay.
But inside,
my ribs felt like a concert hall
that just missed the music
by seconds.

I didn’t fall for you loudly.
I fell in the quiet ways —
in the way your name sat in my throat
like a word I wasn’t supposed to speak.
In the way your friends laughed too knowingly,
like the universe told them
before I did.

You sat across from me
like gravity disguised as coincidence.
Like your silence
was louder than anything you could have said.

And maybe you did like me —
in that hesitant, half-drawn kind of way.
Maybe you were raised to believe
that feelings are distractions,
that love should wait
until every dream is neatly folded.

But I wasn’t trying to unravel you.
I just wanted to be something
you didn’t have to ignore.

I didn’t ask for a forever.
Just a flicker of yes.
A pause.
An ache mirrored back.

Instead, you offered me friendship
with hands that trembled
like they’d almost said more.

So now, I carry this moment
like a letter unsent —
creased, rewritten,
but still tucked away.

Not now, you said.
And maybe that’s the truth.

But somewhere,
beneath your temple-quiet discipline
and unspoken maybes,
I think you felt it too —

a softness too early,
a closeness too close.

Maybe not now.
Maybe not ever.

But if it ever becomes now,
I hope you remember —
I offered my heart
when it was still learning
how to be brave.