Whispers of the Heart

I am Julia, and this is a story I’ve never told anyone—not even to the person who lives at the center of it. A story that begins and ends with love, but a love that blooms in silence, hidden beneath layers of fear, hope, and the kind of longing that never truly fades.

He is my cousin—two years older than me—and from as far back as I can remember, he has always been there. When we were children, we used to play in our grandmother’s backyard, climbing trees, building mud houses, chasing butterflies. He would always hold my hand when I climbed too high or when I tripped on a stone. And I, even as a little girl, felt something strange and sweet flutter in my chest every time he looked at me.

As we grew up, our games faded, replaced by shared conversations under the stars, late-night texting, and laughter that echoed through our family gatherings. He became my safe space, the only one who understood my silence, who could read my emotions just by looking into my eyes. And somewhere in that transition—from childhood innocence to adolescent wonder—I fell in love with him.

Not the kind of love people usually talk about in books or movies. This was quieter, deeper, more painful. A love that I didn’t choose but couldn’t escape from either.

I used to ask myself: Is it wrong?
Not because he ever treated me badly—he didn’t. In fact, he was always kind, always protective. But because I was his cousin. And no matter how much my heart screamed his name, I couldn’t forget that one fact that stood like a wall between us.

He never knew. Or maybe he did and just never said anything.

There was a night I’ll never forget. A winter evening, cold and misty. We were sitting on the rooftop during a family get-together, wrapped in blankets, sipping hot chocolate. Everyone else had gone downstairs, and it was just the two of us under a sky filled with stars.

He looked at me and said, “You’ve changed, Julia. You’ve grown up so much.”

I laughed nervously. “So have you. You’ve become more annoying.”

He smiled, but his eyes lingered on mine. “You’re special, you know? There’s something about you… I don’t know what it is, but I feel it.”

My heart pounded like a drum inside my chest. That was the moment. I could’ve said it. I could’ve told him, “It’s because I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

But I didn’t.

Instead, I looked away and said, “Don’t be dramatic.”

Because I was scared. Scared of ruining everything. Scared of his rejection. Scared that he would pull away and never look at me the same way again.

And so, the moment passed.

That was two years ago. Since then, he has gone on with his life. We still talk. He still checks in on me. He still calls me “Jules,” a name only he uses. But things are different. He’s met someone—someone he likes, maybe even loves. And every time he tells me about her, something inside me cracks just a little more.

I smile. I nod. I listen. And then I go into my room and cry.

People say time heals all wounds, but what they don’t tell you is that some wounds never really close—they just stop bleeding. The love I have for him still lives in me, but I’ve learned to live around it. I’ve built walls and routines and distractions, but every once in a while, something will break through—a song, a smell, a memory—and I’ll be right back in that winter night on the rooftop, wondering what might have happened if I’d spoken my truth.

I sometimes dream about alternate realities, about a version of me brave enough to have told him everything. Maybe in that world, we’re not cousins. Maybe we’re just two souls who found each other and held on. Maybe we didn’t have to hide behind what was right or wrong.

But this is real life, and in this life, I chose silence.

I’ve never told anyone because I don’t want to be judged. I don’t want people to misunderstand. It’s not about obsession or fantasy. It’s just love—pure, unexplainable, and honest. A love that has taught me more about myself than anything else ever has.

I love him. I probably always will. And maybe, one day, I’ll be able to let go. But for now, I keep loving him in quiet ways—in the way I save our old photos, the way I reread his texts, the way I still look for his name first in any group chat.

Sometimes, I wonder if he feels even a fraction of what I do. Sometimes, I think I see it in his eyes—something unspoken, something he, too, might be hiding. But I’ll never know. Unless one of us speaks, this love will remain buried in the silence between us.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe some love stories aren’t meant to be told. Maybe they’re just meant to be felt—deeply, silently, eternally.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever loved someone with your whole heart and