The Things I Can’t Tell Her

There are moments when love doesn’t break you loudly —
it breaks you in silence, in bus windows, in the space between two people who can’t seem to meet in the middle.

Today I asked her a question I’ve been too afraid to voice for months:
“What are we?”
Not lovers, I knew that.
So I offered something smaller, safer:
“Are we close friends?”

She said no.
Just friends.

It’s strange how two words can sink straight into your ribs and knock the air out of you.
I couldn’t talk after that.
Not because I was angry, but because I knew that if I opened my mouth, the tears I’ve been holding for weeks would come pouring out.
So I walked ahead.
And on the bus home we sat across from each other, both quiet.
She looked so peaceful, so radiant in the soft light —
and all I could think was how badly I wished she were mine to love and cherish.

And then the jealousy came.
The fear.
The ache that curls into your chest when you imagine the person you love with someone else —
maybe a man, maybe a husband, maybe a future where she’s a mother and you’re just a memory from her twenties.
And it hurt in a way I can’t even explain, because I know I can’t give her that life,
and some part of me wishes I had been born differently so that maybe, just maybe, she would have said yes.

But the truth is, even if I had been a man, she might still have said no.
And I don’t want to believe my worth comes from something I had no choice in.

Still, I can’t lie.
I want her.
I want to take her out for tiramisu and green tea at a little café.
I want to go ice skating with her,
to ride the ferris wheel at the Christmas market,
to share a kiss under the moonlight and the big tree glowing with lights.
I want to hold her hands and learn the secrets she keeps tucked behind her smile.
I want to love her — truly love her — in a way nobody else ever tried.

But she doesn’t believe me.
Or maybe she can’t.

And I keep thinking: maybe if I hadn’t tried to be her friend.
Maybe if from the very start I had just said, “I’m interested in you.”

But the truth is simple:
I loved her the way I knew how.
I loved her gently.
Softly.
Completely.

It just wasn’t enough for her.

The worst part?
I don’t blame her.
I just miss the version of my world where she could have been mine.

So I write this tonight as a way of letting the pain move through me instead of letting it drown me.
As a reminder to myself that loving someone isn’t a mistake —
even when they don’t love you back.

Maybe she’ll never be mine.
Maybe she’ll marry someone else.
Maybe her life will unfold without me.

But at least I can say I loved her honestly.
At least I can say it meant something — even if only to me.

And maybe someday, when my heart stops shaking,
I’ll finally be able to let her go.

Onnaya