“The Words I Never Said”

By Murad Ali Shah

She sat two desks away, always with a cup of coffee and a small, worn-out notebook. Every morning at 8:30 sharp, she’d walk into the office with her hair slightly damp from the shower, earbuds tucked in, and the faintest smile that seemed to hold a whole world behind it.

I used to think I’d talk to her one day — maybe during a break, or while waiting for the printer to spit out another report. I rehearsed small conversations in my head: “Do you take sugar in your coffee?” or “Hey, that’s a nice playlist — mind if I ask what you’re listening to?” But every time I got close, the words melted before they reached my lips.

There was nothing special about the day we met, and maybe that’s what made it unforgettable. It was a Tuesday, and the rain outside hadn’t stopped since morning. She came in, shook her umbrella, and smiled at me — not a long smile, not one that lasted, just the kind that says “I noticed you.” That was enough to make the rest of my day feel like sunlight had somehow seeped through the clouds.

Weeks passed. Our conversations were brief — about work, deadlines, and coffee preferences. But there was always something underneath those small exchanges, something we both pretended not to see. I noticed how her eyes softened when she talked about her dog. How she paused mid-sentence to think, tapping her pen lightly on the desk. And how she’d tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous.

Sometimes I caught her looking at me too — just for a second — before pretending she wasn’t. Maybe that was enough. Maybe some stories are meant to exist only in glances.

There was a Friday — one of those ordinary ones when the office buzzed with weekend plans — when she said she’d be leaving soon. A new job. A new city. “I just need a change,” she said, her voice steady but her fingers restless. I nodded, pretending I was happy for her. Inside, something small and fragile collapsed.

That night I wrote her a message. It said, “I’m really going to miss you. More than I should, probably.” I read it three times before deleting it. I convinced myself it would make things awkward, that it was better left unsaid.

The next week, she was gone. Her desk was empty, her coffee cup missing, the faint scent of her vanilla perfume fading with each passing day. The office felt quieter — not in sound, but in spirit.

Months later, I saw her again — by accident — at a bookstore downtown. She looked different, happier maybe, with a spark in her eyes that wasn’t there before. We talked for a few minutes — polite, light, the kind of conversation strangers have after once being almost something.

When she turned to leave, she smiled again — that same brief smile from our first meeting. And for a moment, I wanted to tell her everything: how the office coffee never tasted right after she left, how I still checked my phone some mornings expecting a message that never came, how sometimes, I still rewound those silent moments in my head like a movie I couldn’t stop watching.

But I didn’t say it. I just smiled back and watched her walk away — fading into the crowd, like a song that ends before the last note.

And maybe that’s what unspoken love really is — not a confession, not a declaration, but a quiet ache that stays behind. It’s the echo of something beautiful that never found its words. Sometimes, love isn’t about saying it out loud. It’s about feeling it, silently — and carrying it, gently — for the rest of your life.