The Saying

He doesn’t like me, isn’t it?

I asked myself, remembering the day

I waited at that café,

Hands curled around hope,

Eyes fixed on the door

That never opened for him.

He had promised he would come.

He did not.

An hour later,

A call—

“I’m busy,” he said,

Busy, perhaps, with Amy, or Rose, or Mandy,

Names that stung like quiet truths.

But then he called again,

His voice softened by apology.

And the next day he brought me

A basket of fresh fruits—

Sweetness brushing my heart,

Citrus lighting faint, foolish dreams.

We rode together

Through the pulse of the city,

Two awkward souls

Drawn toward each other

With a tension sharp enough

To slice the air.

He made me laugh

Even as my tears clung

To the edges of my smile.

He steadied me when I stumbled,

Said he would always be there.

And I believed him—

Because the heart believes

What it aches to hear.

But today, when I asked again

Tentatively, like stepping on thin ice

The room shifted,

Eyes softened,

Silence thickened around me.

And someone whispered,

Almost like a breeze trying not to wound:

“He carried hatred for you all along.”

The voices

Rose like a quiet storm

Soft, almost pitying

Saying he had hated me,

For reasons no one knew,

For reasons I could never touch,

Like shadows cast

Before I ever learned

Where the light truly was.