She speaks in song lyrics and cursed memes,
in lowercase confessions and digital dreams.
He shows up like sunlight through tree branch cracks,
never all at once—just enough to come back.

They don’t talk about it.
Of course they don’t.
It’s a slow burn—
the kind where eye contact feels like shouting.
The kind where silence hums with
"maybe"
and
"don’t ruin this."

She loves him in margins,
in pauses between group laughter,
when he treats her the same as the rest—
and somehow that’s what makes her feel safest.
Not in the spotlight.
Not on a pedestal.
Just… seen.
In the quiet way that matters most.

She writes poems about him.
And songs.
And little sentences that break like waves
on the edges of her hope.

He?
He exists.
Maybe he knows.
Maybe he will.

And until then,
She sits under the weight of everything unspoken,
holding her heart like it’s
still deciding whether to whisper
or scream.