Love yourself, woman
She sits by the window once again.
She knows he is not going to text her. But she also knows that she will not text him either.
Even if an entire city burns inside her and desire gnaws at her bones, she will not do it. She knows what it would mean. She knows the consequences of sending that message.
Sometimes she wonders who the gods that invented unrequited love were, or what judges decided the rules of such a strange way of loving. She also wonders whether this is some kind of debt she carried over from another life.
“What did I do to deserve this silence?”
Now she imagines him. She dreams of his face. She fantasizes about his kisses.
And still, there is nothing she can do.
Because she knows that, deep down — or perhaps not as deep down as she would like to believe — he knows, he always knew.
The hours keep passing, and the sun slowly changes color. She watches everything from the window and wonders whether, like the sun sinking into the evening, this passion will one day fade away too.
And in the middle of uncertainty, she hopes that it will.
So she chooses to love in silence.
Because, after all, she has also learned to love herself.