He Can’t Know What My Heart Is Hiding

I never meant to fall for him. Not like this—quietly, secretly, hopelessly. Love wasn’t supposed to feel like a secret mission, but here I am, guarding my heart like it’s contraband that could ruin everything if discovered.

He sits across from me on the old rooftop ledge, legs dangling like a careless dare. The city lights scatter behind him, reflecting in his eyes like scattered constellations. He’s talking about something funny that happened earlier, hands moving animatedly, voice soft but bright. I nod and smile at all the right places, but every heartbeat feels like a confession I can’t afford to let slip.

Because he can’t know. Not now. Not yet.

He turns toward me suddenly, the night breeze catching the loose strands of his hair.

“You okay?” he asks, studying me like he always does—too carefully, too deeply.

His gaze lingers long enough to make my chest tighten. I look away.

If he ever found out how his smallest concern shakes me… how his nearness turns every moment into something I have to survive quietly… he’d ask questions I’m not ready to answer. And maybe he’d pull away. Or worse—maybe he wouldn’t, and I’d lose him in a different way.

The truth sits in my throat like a locked door.

I force a small smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his brows press together, the way he shifts a little closer. He’s always been like this—intuitive, protective, too gentle for someone who pretends he’s not.

“Tell me if something’s wrong,” he says softly. “I don’t want you carrying things alone.”

If only he knew that the thing I’m carrying is him.

The night hums between us. A car passes far below. A siren echoes somewhere faintly. And still, he waits—patient, open, trusting.

I hate this.

Not him.

This—this feeling of holding something too fragile, too dangerous, too precious to speak aloud.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say again, but the lie feels heavier this time.

He exhales, slow and quiet, as if letting go of something he doesn’t want to.

“Alright,” he whispers, even though he doesn’t mean it.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s the kind that settles between people who know each other too well, who don’t always need words. And that’s what scares me most—how easily he could unravel me without even trying.

He leans back on his elbows, looking up at the sky as if searching for an answer there.

“Sometimes,” he says, voice low and thoughtful, “I feel like you’re drifting somewhere I can’t reach.”

My heart stumbles.

He’s closer to the truth than he realizes. Too close.

“I’m not drifting,” I reply, but my voice is barely a whisper.

“Then what are you hiding?”

He doesn’t ask it sharply. He doesn’t accuse. He just asks… gently, like he’s offering a safe place to land.

My breath catches.

For a moment—just one—I imagine telling him everything. How his laugh stays with me. How his absence feels like missing sunlight. How every day I fight the urge to reach for his hand, to say too much, to want too much.

But the consequences rise like shadows behind that dream.

He trusts me. He relies on me. He sees me as something stable, something steady. If I shift that—if I make this complicated—everything we’ve built could fracture.

And I can’t lose him. Even if that means loving him in silence.

“I’m not hiding anything,” I say at last, my voice steady but my pulse trembling.

He watches me for a long moment. Then he nods, slowly, almost reluctantly.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t look convinced.

Maybe he never will again.

A cool breeze sweeps across the rooftop. He shifts closer—not touching, but close enough that warmth gathers between us like an unspoken promise neither of us is ready to claim.

And beneath the night sky, heavy with things unsaid, I realize something:

This is just the beginning.

The beginning of the truth, the fear, the ache, the love.

The first whisper

of a secret

that can’t stay hidden forever.