If I know anything,
it’s that I’ll wait—
silently,
without reaching out,
without calling.

But if you return,
I’ll open my arms
like they were never empty,

and love you
with the kind of heart
that forgets
who broke it.

You’ll never know
how deeply it aches—
knowing you’ll never love me
the way I love you.

To me,
you are the only one.
To you,
I was easy to forget.

I don’t know why
I’m still clinging
to what you let go
so easily.

Why does my heart
keep beating
for someone
who never even looks back?

Why does love
stay burning
for a soul
that never searches for mine?

We’re not just friends,
not really lovers.

We meet in glances,
pause in silence,
exist in a place
no one else understands.

There’s love here—
soft, unfinished,
quietly burning.

But not everything
that feels right
gets to stay.

You shattered me
with hands that never trembled,
then stepped back,
tears in your eyes,
as if you were the one
left bleeding.

How do you ruin a heart
and still cry
like the story
was never yours to blame?

You ask me what you are to me—
but how do I explain
that without you,
the light feels dimmer,
the world quieter,
and I—
less alive?

You are not a chapter.
You are the reason
the story keeps going.

When the world goes quiet,
when backs turn,
and doors close—

it’s always you
still standing there,
like I’m worth staying for.

You held my heart
like it was something to pass time.

Poked at it,
twisted it,
until it cracked—

and somehow,
my pain
was your entertainment.