Quiet heartaches

I thought you didn’t care.

You laughed the same with everyone,

spoke easily,

walked away like nothing stayed behind.

So I told myself

I was imagining it—

the way your eyes lingered

half a second too long,

the way you noticed when I went quiet.

I thought you didn’t care,

because you never said it.

And neither did I.

But then you stayed.

Not loudly.

Not obviously.

Just… enough.

You sat beside me

when you didn’t have to.

You asked questions

that didn’t move the conversation forward

but felt like you were trying to understand me anyway.

I caught you looking

when you thought I wasn’t paying attention.

You looked away too fast—

like you were afraid

I’d see something you weren’t ready to explain.

So maybe you care.

Just not in a way that’s brave yet.

Just like me.

We’re standing on opposite sides

of the same unspoken thing,

both convinced the other is already gone,

both staying anyway.

I wonder if you know

how carefully I read your silences.

How I memorize the small ways

you choose me without choosing me.

I don’t say anything.

You don’t either.

But sometimes—

in the pauses,

in the almosts,

in the way neither of us leaves—

it feels like we’re saying everything

we’re too scared to admit out loud.