when you love someone you know you can’t have

there’s a specific kind of love that doesn’t explode.

it doesn’t confess itself loudly.

it just settles on your chest and stays there, quiet and stubborn.

you don’t tell anyone.

you don’t even tell them.

because you already know.

you already know the timing is wrong.

or the distance is real.

or they belong toma different life than the one you’re living.

and still— 

you notice the smallest things.

the way they laugh.

the songs they could probably like.

the messages you type and delete at 1:57 a.m.

loving someone you can’t have is strange. 

it’s tender, but it’s also lonely.

it’s imagining a future you will never step into.

sometimes i wonder if it’s more romantic this way

untouched.

unruined by reality.

but then i remember that i would have choose the messy version.

the real one.

every single time.

and maybe that’s the saddest part.

knowing you love them.

and choosing silence anyway.