That day,
before the fight,
I saw her photo on social media,
a snapshot of her smile
that made my chest tighten
and my mind wandered.
I thought,
maybe I could flirt,
maybe I could make her laugh,
but the words
that tumbled out
were clumsy and sharp,
unsure of their own weight.
She replied
“Go study.”
A simple, gentle nudge,
but I misunderstood,
mistook it for a dismissal.
And in that moment,
I don’t know why,
but I threw a dart of bitterness
into the space between us,
telling her
not to make fun of someone’s emotions,
as if she owed me
an explanation
for not meeting my expectations.
I said worse things
things I didn’t mean,
things I didn’t even know
were buried so deep inside me.
Words that stung
without reason,
and without thought.
She told me
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
Her voice was soft,
but it broke the silence,
like a crack in glass.
I replied,
“Okay, I will not.”
And it seemed like an end,
like a resolution,
but in truth,
it was the beginning
of something much harder
than either of us could have known.
Later that night,
I slept,
unaware of the storm
brewing inside her,
while she called
asking,
“Are you okay?”
And I,
with all the calm
of a lie,
said,
“Yeah, I am.”
I didn’t know then
that she wasn’t.
The next day,
she cried in front of me,
her tears falling like an answer
to questions I never asked.
And I stood there,
watching
as she bled out all the hurt
I had inflicted
and I,
too proud or too scared,
stood still,
like a statue,
paralyzed by my own shame,
too late to undo
what had already been said,
too late to stop her tears.
In that moment,
I made a vow to myself
a silent, foolish promise
that I would hide my heart
from her,
never flirt,
never say I love you,
never cross that line
again.
I would be her good friend,
nothing more,
nothing less,
because I feared the weight
of what I felt,
and I knew
I had no right
to ask for more.
I swore never to message her
unless necessary,
to stay distant,
to keep the door
between us closed.
But now,
as I stand here,
alone with my regrets,
I realize how hollow
that pledge was.
I still love her,
still want her by my side,
still ache
for the words I never said,
for the touch I never gave.
And all I have now
is the quiet of my own promise,
the heavy silence of what I didn’t do,
and the longing for a future
that might have been,
if only I had spoken,
if only I had acted,
if only I had been
brave enough
to love her
not in the shadows,
but out loud,
without fear,
without hesitation.

.    .    .