He holds me like I'm something he's afraid of breaking.
Gentle.
Warm.
Still.
And for a moment, I believe this is what it means to be loved.
Not in the way people post about on social media.
Not with fireworks or slow dances or grand declarations.
Just… in stillness.
In staying.
In breath shared between two bodies trying not to tremble.
I bury my face into his shoulder.
My voice barely a breath.
"I love you."
It's not a test.
Not really.
But maybe—maybe it's a hope dressed up as a whisper.
Maybe it's a plea I don't know how to say out loud: Tell me I'm not alone in this. Show me I didn't imagine it.
Proof.
That all the time, all the quiet, all the care—it meant something.
That I'm not the only one who feels my ribs tighten every time our fingers brush like sparks we're too afraid to name.
But he says nothing.
Not right away.
And maybe not ever.
He stiffens just slightly—not a flinch, not a rejection. Just… a pause.
A silence with weight.
Like a held breath.
Like something unsaid pressing against the walls of his mouth.
And then he pulls me closer.
Firmer.
Like he's answering with touch instead of words.
Like his arms can mean more than his voice ever could.
And maybe they do.
Maybe for someone else, that would be enough.
But I'm not someone else.
I grew up listening for affection in the spaces between yelling and silence.
I learned how to read the pauses between words like they were survival instructions.
I know what love sounds like.
And this isn't it.
My chest tightens.
Not from heartbreak.
Not yet.
But from confusion.
From fear dressed in disappointment's clothes.
Because he didn't say it back.
Not even a whisper.
Not even a nod.
Just held me.
Like maybe he felt sorry for me.
Like maybe he thought not saying it was the kinder thing.
Like he was trying to shelter me from the truth I already knew.
And my mind—my ever-anxious mind—does what it always does.
It spirals.
"He feels bad for you."
"He sees how broken you are."
"This is pity, not love."
"You scared him off."
"You ruined it."
I pull away.
Just a little.
Just enough that he won't notice—or so I hope.
He's still holding me.
Still warm.
Still present.
But I've already started to leave the room in my mind.
Piece by piece.
Emotion by emotion.
Silently packing up all the vulnerable things I let myself place in his hands.
Later, he walks me home.
We don't talk much.
Our steps fall in rhythm, but our hearts are out of sync.
The wind picks up.
He slips his hoodie over my shoulders.
I thank him.
He smiles.
That stupid sweet smile that used to melt me.
Now it feels like a trick mirror—something soft hiding a crack.
When he says goodnight, he squeezes my hand once.
I don't squeeze back.
Not because I'm angry.
But because I'm tired.
Tired of wanting things people don't know how to give.
Tired of being the one who always feels more.
Tired of mistaking silence for safety.
That night, I lie in bed with his hoodie wrapped around me.
It smells like him.
Like pine and something faintly citrus.
And I hate that it still comforts me.
I replay it all in my head.
The silence.
The way he looked at me.
The way he didn't say it back.
I dissect every moment, like maybe if I cut deep enough, I'll find clarity inside the wound.
But there's no answer.
Just echoes.
And something settles in my chest like dust.
Not rage.
Not even sadness.
Just distance.
The kind that grows invisible fences between hearts.
The kind that whispers, This is where it ends, even if you keep pretending it hasn't.
Tomorrow, I'll see him again.
He'll smile.
I'll smile.
But it won't feel the same.
Because I gave him something soft and trembling and real.
And he gave me silence.
And in that silence, something fragile between us quietly died.
No funeral.
No goodbye.
Just the ache of an unspoken truth and a love that didn't echo back.