The Summer I Couldn’t Tell Him

Last summer, I met someone who changed me in ways I didn’t expect. We laughed, danced, kissed, and parted too soon. I thought it was just a fleeting memory, but when summer returned and I saw him again, I realised the truth: I had never stopped carrying him in my heart. This is the story of the summer I couldn’t tell him.

As I silently waited for him that day…. 23 July 2025. I heard his voice, and my heart jumped. From the balcony, I watched him walk toward the door, a suitcase in one hand, a phone in the other, headphones draped around his neck. His demeanor never stopped catching my breath. He was everything I had whispered for in my silent prayers. My heart longed to leap into his arms, but my legs wouldn’t move. My Taku was here.

From that moment, every memory surged back the sound of his laugh, the gentleness in his presence, the way silence between us had never felt heavy. Joy bloomed in me, but so did something sharper, something I couldn’t ignore.

I had convinced myself I was over him. That what we shared belonged to last summer and nothing more. But the truth revealed itself in the most painful way: he was already talking to someone else. My chest tightened, but I smiled, congratulated him, and wished him happiness. My words were steady, but inside I was breaking.

That summer, I wore my secret like a mask. I laughed the loudest, made jokes, even teased and flirted as though I were untouched. But beneath the performance, my heart whispered what I couldn’t say out loud: I loved him.

It wasn’t infatuation. It wasn’t curiosity. It was love, the kind that sneaks up on you slowly, quietly, until it consumes you all at once. And yet, I said nothing.

There were so many moments when the words rose up, trembling at the tip of my tongue. When our conversations softened into something tender, or when a look lingered too long, I thought, This is it. I’ll tell him. But fear always pulled me back. Fear of rejection. Fear of ruining the little connection we still had. Fear of hearing an answer I wasn’t ready for.

So I stayed silent.

On the last day of summer, my silence betrayed me. Everything I had held back came rushing out in frustration instead of tenderness. I raised my voice when I should have spoken softly. He stayed, patient and kind, listening even when my words tumbled out wrong. For a brief moment, I thought I might finally confess… that I loved him, that I always had. But again, I couldn’t. My courage faltered, and the silence won.

When he left, I prayed.

“Lord, I don’t know Your plans for him. If You haven’t written his story yet, please let me be a part of it. If not, please give me peace to let go. If he is mine, keep him for me.”

It was a prayer stitched with hope and surrender, whispered through quiet tears.

The summer ended, as all summers do. He went his way, and I went mine. Outwardly, life returned to its rhythm, but inside I carried the weight of unsaid words. He never knew, and maybe he never will.

The truth is, the summer I couldn’t tell him taught me something I’ll never forget: silence has its own kind of ache. Sometimes it protects you, but sometimes it costs you more than rejection ever could.

And so the story remains unfinished not with a confession, not with a promise, but with the quiet echo of what was left unsaid.