Each time my anger rose, memories of our moments together washed it away.
The way her eyes softened when they met mine,
The way her presence felt like gravity pulling me home.
And yet, doubt lingered.
What if she doesn't love me? What if I'm just another face in the crowd?
Still, I couldn't let go.
I caught myself staring at spaces where she wasn't, listening for echoes of a voice that wasn't calling my name.
I thought about telling her everything, but fear tangled my words into knots.
How do you explain that someone has become your world without sounding desperate?
How do you tell them that your pen bleeds ink for them late into the night?
Maybe she already knew.
Maybe she was waiting for me to say it.
Or maybe she wasn't.