I genuinely hope that you never have to beg someone for the one last honest conversation you deserve…

I just hope the person you choose knows your worth and reallyyyyy fkinnnn knows it…..

Because you all deserve someone who doesn’t make you question where you stand, someone who communicates when things get difficult and someone who knows how to take care of a heart that chose them.

You all deserve to be valued, understood, and loved with the same certainty you give to someone.

I tried my best to make something real. Maybe it wasn't meant to be for me and I’ve made peace with that honestly….

i just hope whoever it is they understand what they have in you.

and they never make you feel like you have to ask for the bare minimum….

take care of yourself, trulyyy

if this found you at the right moment
there's more where this came from.
poetry in pieces. always free.

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have you ever written something like this
and never sent it?
reply and tell me i would love to hear your side of story…

People ask me if I love someone. I laugh, shake my head, and say no.

What else am I supposed to say?

How do I explain that there is a person who has become so woven into my soul that I find traces of him everywhere? How do I tell them that he exists in every prayer I whisper, every dream I chase, every song that suddenly feels too personal, every quiet moment when my heart is left alone with itself?

The world hears my answer. But my heart knows the truth.

Yes, I love someone.

I love him in ways that words have never been able to hold. I love him in the little things and in the impossible things. I love him in my reality, and I love him in the futures that only exist inside my imagination. I carry him with me through ordinary days and sleepless nights, through laughter and loneliness, through moments when I feel strong and moments when I completely fall apart.

And the most painful part is that nobody knows.

Nobody knows how often I wonder if he has eaten, if he is sleeping enough, if he is happy, if he is okay. Nobody knows how many conversations I’ve had with him inside my head because I couldn’t have them in real life. Nobody knows how many times I’ve reached for him in my thoughts when the world became too heavy.

I don't want everyone to know how much I love him. I want him to know.

I want him to know that there is someone who would choose him in every lifetime, in every universe, in every version of her existence. Someone who has loved him so quietly, so completely

she no longer remembers who she was before her heart learned his name.

Because somewhere between loving him and longing for him, I lost myself.

And strangely, I never wanted to be found.

. . .

All I have ever wanted is for him to look at me one day and realize that there was a heart beating for him all along.

A heart that never asked for perfection. A heart that never asked for promises. A heart that only ever asked to be chosen by the person it chose first.

Poetry in Pieces

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But it’s not just the ending that hurts me, it’s the silence that followed.

Everything just stopped, and no one prepared me for how loud the quiet would be.

There are so many habits now with nowhere to go.

I still think of you when something good happens or bad. When I’m out somewhere and I spot something you would have loved.

And for a second, my heart gets excited, but there’s no one to tell.

Well, loving you became part of my routine.

Poetry in Pieces

for the silence no one warns you about.

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I think the most beautiful thing love has ever done to me is not make me feel complete but make me want to become better.

Before you, I had made peace with my flaws. I accepted that I was imperfect, unfinished, still learning how to be the person I wanted to become. Then you came into my life, and without even trying, you awakened something in me.

For the first time, I wanted more from myself.

Not because you asked me to change. Not because I thought you would love me more if I did. But because loving you made me realize how much more I was capable of being.

You became the reason I looked at my shortcomings with hope instead of shame. The reason I wanted to be softer where I was harsh, stronger where I was weak, and braver where I was afraid.

You never demanded anything from me, yet somehow you inspired everything.

So if loving you has made me kinder, wiser, gentler with my heart, and more certain of the woman I want to become, then I cannot believe this love is wrong. How could it be, when it has brought me closer to the best version of myself?

I love you with a depth I cannot fully explain—only feel.

And sometimes, when the world is quiet enough, I realize that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just someone I loved and became a part of who I am.

Poetry in Pieces

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How did you never know?

How did you never see that every feeling I couldn’t confess was hidden between my words? How did you never notice the way I waited for you—every day, every hour, every little moment in between?

You only had to call my name, and I’d come running with a happiness I could never explain. I never made you wait for me the way I waited for you, because somewhere along the way, you became the part of my day I looked forward to the most.

Didn’t you hear it? The way my voice softened whenever I said your name.
Didn’t you see it? The way I kept finding reasons to stay a little longer.

I loved you in all the ways I didn’t know how to say out loud.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Not that I loved you so deeply, but that you never seemed to notice. Because you were everywhere for me in every song, every thought, every prayer whispered into the night. Yet somehow, I remained unseen by the person I saw in everything.

So if I ever find the courage, I’ll ask you this:

Was I really that hard to see, or did you simply never look closely enough to find the love that had been waiting for you all along?

I don’t know how to begin this. I’ve started it eleven times. Once at 2 a.m., once on a train, once standing in the outfield at sunrise waiting for the match to start which is maybe where it belongs. In a morning that was already yours before I even realized it.

We met the way things only happen in the lives of people who don’t believe in coincidence until something forces them to. No ceremony. No forewarning.

Just suddenly you. And the strangest thing was that there was nothing strange about it. You arrived with the ease of someone returning to a room they’d always known. I think that’s what undid me first. Not your words. The absence of the effort to find them.

Within days there were long calls that ended only because the sun came back. There were inside jokes with the specific gravity of things that have no translation outside of two people who were both present for the moment they were made. You gave me a nickname. I gave you one back. And in those small, almost accidental ceremonies, a world was being quietly constructed a world with a population of two, with its own weather and its own language and its own hours.

You told me you thought about me every waking second. I remember reading that and having to put my phone down and stare at the ceiling for a while, because nobody had ever said something like that to me and simply meant it stated as plain fact, not performance. You wrote poems about me. Actual poems, lines about being beautiful, about wanting to trap me in some soft and impossible net you were weaving, about imagining hours just hours of existing beside me, no destination required.

I read that so many times the words stopped looking like words. I think some part of me was trying to memorize it before I understood why. The body knows things before the mind can name them.

· · ·

Then there was the morning of the cricket match.

I woke at five. The field in the early light is a particular kind of quiet dew still sitting on the outfield grass, the sky doing that thing it does just before the blue arrives, that silver-grey that feels like the world is still deciding what kind of day it wants to be. I was in my head. The match, the field, the rhythm of preparation. I forgot to tell you.

You sent a message at seven. Something soft. Something asking about my morning, telling me I mattered, the kind of message that deserves to be received with full presence and not met with silence for six hours while I ran and bowled and caught and forgot, forgot, forgot.

When I came back to my phone I felt it before I read it. The specific weight of having let someone down through thoughtlessness rather than intention, which is sometimes worse, because at least intention has a reason you can hold in your hands and examine.

I apologized. More than once. But I want to say here, where no apology needs to perform anything, that I wasn’t apologizing for the missed message. I was apologizing because someone who had trusted me with the most frightened and tender parts of herself deserved to never wonder, even for a moment, if the silence meant absence. You deserved to know. You deserved the small, simple kindness of being told I’ll be unreachable, but I’ll come back. I’ll come back.

· · ·

And then something shifted.

I didn’t see it clearly at first. I thought it was the ordinary web of things the way all closeness breathes, contracts, expands. But it wasn’t that. What I was watching, though I didn’t have the words for it yet, was someone beginning to do what she was most afraid she would do. Beginning to disappear.

She told me — you told me — you overthought everything. That you were afraid of your own feelings. That you had loved before in ways that had left damage, not in the other person, but in yourself in your own capacity to trust what you felt, to believe that what you felt was real and not just the story you were telling yourself. You were a poet. Of course, you knew how to construct a beautiful story. That was also the thing that terrified you most.

You believed I think and I am trying to hold this gently, because it deserves gentleness that your love was a kind of debt. That eventually it would come due. That the intensity of what you felt was evidence not of depth but of danger. That anyone who received it fully would one day look up and find themselves wrecked by a feeling that had started as a gift.

I have tried to understand that. I have sat with it in the early mornings, on the same field where I once forgot to tell you I’d be gone, and I have tried to understand how a person can think about someone every waking second and still convince herself that the kindest thing she can do is leave. How someone can call you home and then quietly decide that home is where she will hurt you. How fear can walk into the room of something that was never given the chance to fail and simply — decide the ending.

You didn’t leave because you found someone else. I know this.

You didn’t leave because I wasn’t enough. I know this too, though knowing it and feeling it are different rooms in the same dark house.

You left because you had tried and convicted yourself in a court that met only in your own mind, at hours when the rest of the world was asleep. You heard the evidence of your own love and you decided it was a threat. You sentenced yourself before the crime had even been imagined.

· · ·

There are things I still reach for, automatically, that no longer exist. A particular kind of late night, before sleep, when I would put on a song and wonder if you were awake and listening to something that felt like the same feeling I was in. Waking up and knowing there was a message waiting — not a message about anything, specifically, just you, just the fact of you choosing to begin your day by saying: you’re in it. The way your poems would sometimes arrived as voice notes, your reading voice quieter than your speaking voice, like you were being careful with the words even as you gave them away.

I have a conversation saved. I scroll to it sometimes and I don’t read it. I just look at the length of it. The distance we traveled in the medium of language. The density of it. Someone who knew nothing of us could hold that scroll in their hands and feel the weight. They wouldn’t need to understand a word.

People arrive feeling like home. And then sometimes they leave feeling like weather

— present, atmospheric, everywhere and undeniable, and then simply changed. Gone to somewhere you cannot follow. The temperature different. The light different. The air asking you to adjust to an absence it doesn’t know how to apologize for.

· · ·

I am not writing this to call you back. I have made my peace with the particular silence that follows someone choosing themselves — even when they are choosing themselves against themselves, which is its own kind of grief to witness.

I am writing it because the tragedy was never that you loved too little.

You loved ferociously. You loved with your whole literary, overcrowded, beautiful mind. You loved in poems and in nicknames and in the hours you carved out of your days just to be present in mine. You loved in the way people love who have read enough to know that love is the most serious thing there is — who know its weight, who have seen what it does when it is mishandled. That is not a small love. That is not a love that should have been abandoned in the dark by the very person who carried it.

The tragedy was that you never believed you were safe enough to stay in it. That every step closer felt like a step toward the moment you would finally prove yourself right — prove that you were, as you had always suspected, too much. Too intense. Too feeling. Too certain to ultimately make a ruin of something good.

I want to say — and I know you may never read this, and I have accepted that too — that you were not too much. You were not a disaster wearing a person’s face. You were someone who felt everything and was terrified of herself for it. And that is heartbreaking. Not because of what it did to us, though it did do something to us. But because of what it must be like to live inside that fear. To love something and immediately begin mourning it. To be your own worst ending, over and over, before anyone else gets the chance to be something else.

I hope she learns, eventually, to be kinder to herself. I hope she finds herself, one quiet afternoon, in the middle of something real and lovely, and does not run. I hope she stays long enough to discover what I already knew: that she was not someone who would wreck a person. She was someone who was afraid of being one. There is an ocean between those two things, and she deserved to stand on the other shore of it.

I think about her sometimes not with grief, exactly, though grief is somewhere in it — but with something closer to the feeling you carry for a song that played once, at the right moment, in the right light, and then ended before you could memorize it. You don’t mourn a song like that. You just find yourself grateful, sometimes, that it existed at all. That for a while, the room had that music in it.

That for a while, she was in it.

with everything I couldn’t say before the silence…

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