I deeply regret the moment I confessed my feelings to her. It was a reckless gamble, a decision made in the fragile hope that, before graduation, I took a leap of faith, baring my soul and revealing the delicate, trembling truth I had guarded for so long. In that moment, I foolishly hoped for even the smallest sign of acknowledgment a word, a glance, anything to validate the storm of emotions I had kept hidden. Instead, I was met with an unyielding silence, a void so cold and suffocating it felt as if the world itself had paused. That silence wasn't merely the absence of a response; it was the weight of rejection unspoken, pressing down on my chest and shattering the fragile courage I had so carefully pieced together.
It lingered, that silence, like an unwelcome ghost, a constant reminder of my exposed vulnerability and the cruel realization that my feelings were one-sided. It wasn't just an unanswered confession; it was a raw, aching truth that I could neither ignore nor escape.
Since that moment, I've tried to gather the shattered pieces of myself, attempting to move forward with the hollow determination of someone trying to escape their own shadow. I told myself it was time to let go of a dream that was never destined to be mine. But no matter how far I run, the chains of this love tighten, pulling me back into the endless spiral of longing and despair. The more I struggle to distance myself, the more vivid the memories of you become—your radiant smile, the way your laughter lingers like a melody, the effortless way you command the attention of the world around you.
Still, there's a part of me that clings to this hopeless affection, holding on to the thought that even if I can't have you, I can at least wish for your happiness. And if one day you find yourself drowning in doubt, thinking no one could ever be proud to call you theirs, remember this: There is someone who once offered you the universe, who dreamed of treating you like royalty, who loved you even when it hurt beyond measure. That someone was me. It still is. And maybe, in some small way, it always will be.