Is there something I don't know?
A way to make this work? Its okay. You can tell me if there is. Or even if there isn't. You can tell me anything.
Please. Just tell me something?
We will be okay right?
I don't think there's a world where i can stay away from you. Not really. Not actually.
So tell me?
Is there something I don't know?
Hey you,
There is something deeply uncomfortable about realizing that silence can look a lot like indifference from the other side.
I used to think that if something was real enough, it did not need to be explained. That care could survive without being named. That the important things would somehow make themselves known through habit, through presence, through all the small ways a person becomes woven into your day.
Maybe sometimes they do.
But I think I gave silence too much credit.
You were important to me in ways I never made easy for you to understand.
I noticed when you withdrew before anyone else seemed to. I noticed when your jokes became sharper because saying you were hurt would have felt too exposed. I noticed the moments you made yourself quieter in rooms that had already decided you were too much.
And I hated that.
Not you. But the shrinking.
The way you sometimes seemed to apologize for the parts of you I liked most.
Your intensity. Your strange sincerity. The way you cared past the point of practicality. The way you could make something trivial sound worth thinking about for hours. The way you felt things without pretending they had to be reasonable first.
I don't think I ever told you how rare that seemed to me. Perhaps I assumed you knew.
That is becoming a recurring flaw in my memories of us.
I assumed you knew I wanted to hear from you, even when you had nothing important to say. I assumed you knew I never minded the long messages. I assumed you knew that when you disappeared for a while, the absence had weight. And I assumed you knew that I wasn't merely tolerating your company. I was looking for it.
You should not have had to infer it from how quickly I replied, or from the things I remembered, or from the fact that I somehow always found another few minutes when you needed them.
I made you read between lines I should have simply written.
And maybe none of this would have changed anything.
That is the part I keep trying to be mature about.
A confession is not a key. It does not unlock the life you imagined. Sometimes it only tells another person what was happening inside a room they never asked to enter.
Still, I wish I had been clearer. Not so you could have chosen me.
Just so you could have known you were chosen in my mind, again and again, even when there was no sensible future attached to it.
Who makes an ordinary evening feel slightly less ordinary by occupying the other side of it..
And if there is regret here, it is not that we failed to become some grand thing.
I regret that there may have been moments when you felt unwanted while I was quietly wanting you around.
Moments when you questioned your place while I had already made one for you in my head.
Moments when a few honest words from me might not have changed your life, but might have made one evening gentler.
I cannot go back and offer them where they belonged.
You mattered to me. You were never too much.
And for whatever it is worth now, I hope life has become kinder about reminding you of that.