The Love I Never Said Out Loud

I’ve always believed that time is generous, that we have enough of it to say the things that matter, to fix what's broken, to express what lingers in the heart. But time isn’t generous—it’s just unpredictable. And when it runs out, it leaves behind echoes of what we never said.

This is a story I’ve never told anyone—not fully. Maybe because it hurts, maybe because I’m ashamed of how much I left unsaid. But I’m writing it now, not for closure, but in the hope that someone reading this will say the words I never could. That someone will be braver than I was.

Her name was Aisha.

She wasn’t the kind of girl who made a loud entrance. She didn’t command attention when she walked into a room—but somehow, you always ended up looking at her. Not because she tried to be noticed, but because her presence made you feel like you mattered. Like you were worth noticing.

We met in college—random assignment, same history class, same study group. I didn’t think much of it at first. She was soft-spoken, always with a book in her hand, and her laugh—God, her laugh—could disarm even the coldest day. We grew close fast, bonded over late-night study sessions, coffee that was always too bitter, and shared playlists.

We became each other's safe space. When life got overwhelming, I’d find myself texting her without even realizing it. She had this way of listening—not just hearing you, but really listening. Like your words meant something.

I don’t remember when exactly I fell in love with her. Maybe it was the day she skipped her presentation just to sit with me outside after I failed mine. Or when she showed up on my birthday with a handwritten letter instead of a gift, telling me what she admired most about me.

Maybe it was always there, from the very beginning.

But I never told her.

Not once. Not even when the moments were perfect, when the air was thick with things we didn’t say but could feel. I kept it locked up inside, telling myself I had time. I had later.

After college, life started to move faster. Jobs, relocations, new people. We drifted, as people do, but never completely. We’d still text, still share the occasional update, still wish each other happy birthdays. But the calls became fewer, and the distance more real.

And then came the message that changed everything.

A friend from college reached out. "Did you hear about Aisha?"

I hadn’t.

She had been in a car accident. Gone instantly.

For a while, I couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone had reached into my chest and crushed something sacred. I scrolled through our last texts. The last thing she sent me was a meme about introverts and coffee. I had replied with a laughing emoji. That was it. That was it.

No goodbye. No “I miss you.”

No “I love you.”

Just an emoji.

The days that followed were a blur. I attended her funeral in a daze. I watched her parents hold back tears as they spoke about her kindness, her laughter, the way she always put others before herself. I wanted to scream. Not out loud, but in that desperate way your soul screams when it’s filled with regret.

I sat in the back row, silent, clutching the letter she once gave me on my birthday. The ink had faded a little, but her words were still clear:

“You make people feel seen. You’re the calm in a storm. I hope you know how special that is.”

I wondered if she ever knew that I loved her. If she ever suspected it. If she waited for me to say it and gave up hoping I ever would.

Because the truth is—I had chances. So many of them. Moments when it would’ve been natural, right even. Like that night we stayed up watching the stars from the roof of our dorm and she rested her head on my shoulder. Or the time she hugged me goodbye after graduation and lingered just a second too long.

But I was afraid. Afraid of ruining what we had, of making things awkward, of hearing that she didn’t feel the same. I told myself that our friendship was enough, that love didn’t need to be spoken to be real.

But now? Now I would give anything—anything—for just one more conversation. One more chance to say what I never said out loud.

It took me months to start living again. I kept playing the “what if” game in my head. What if I had told her? What if she felt the same? What if we’d had more time?

I started writing letters I’d never send. Pages filled with everything I wished I could have said. I visited her favorite coffee shop and ordered the drink she always got. I listened to the playlist we made together on repeat until I could finally hear it without crying.

One day, I found an old photo of us tucked inside a book she once gave me—The Little Prince. On the back, she’d written:

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

That quote hit differently now. It reminded me that she saw me. Really saw me. And maybe, just maybe, she knew how I felt. Maybe my silence didn’t erase the truth—but it did rob me of the chance to let her hear it from me.

I began sharing my story—not all at once, but piece by piece. I talked to friends about the importance of expressing love, of not waiting for the perfect moment. I started saying “I love you” more often—to my parents, my friends, even to myself. Because if there's one thing Aisha taught me, it's that love is meant to be given freely, not hoarded in the chambers of “maybe someday.”

Moral of the Story:

Don’t wait.

Don’t wait for the perfect moment to say what your heart already knows. Don’t let fear build a wall between you and the people who matter. Love is not meant to be silent. It’s meant to be spoken, shared, lived.

If someone lives in your heart, tell them.

If you admire someone, say it.

If you’re grateful, express it.

Because time doesn’t send warnings. It doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just moves forward, and if you’re not careful, it will leave you behind—holding unsaid words like ashes in your hands.

Aisha is gone, but her impact remains. Her love, her light, and even her silence—it all taught me the most powerful lesson of my life:

Say the love out loud. Before it’s too late.