“I Loved You Quietly”

I loved you the way people love sunsets —
knowing they don’t belong to them.

Every day, I sat two seats behind you in class. You never noticed. Not because you were rude, but because I never gave you a reason to. I learned your routine instead: the way you smiled when your phone buzzed, the way you tapped your pen when you were nervous, the way your eyes softened when someone else was mentioned.

I told myself it was fine.
Loving you quietly felt safer than risking the truth.

I celebrated your happiness like it was mine. When you talked about him, I listened carefully, nodded politely, and swallowed the ache like it was normal. You trusted me. That was the cruelest part. You trusted me with stories that broke me.

Sometimes, I imagined telling you everything. Not dramatically. Just honestly. But then I’d see how freely you laughed around me — how comfortable you were — and I’d choose silence again. Because loving you was easier than losing you.

The day you left, you hugged me for a second longer than usual. “You’re a good friend,” you said.

Friend.

That word stayed with me longer than you did.

I never confessed. Not because I was weak — but because I knew the answer already. One-sided love isn’t about hope. It’s about acceptance. About choosing pain that hurts quietly over rejection that screams.

I don’t regret loving you.
I regret pretending it didn’t cost me anything.