I Loved Him Quietly, Like Rain on a Roof

There was never a moment I didn’t love him.

Not in the loud, cinematic way love is often told—no.

It was quieter than that.

More like the soft hum of a refrigerator late at night.

More like the way the moon shows up, uninvited but always expected.

I loved him the way rain loves a rooftop—falling again and again, knowing it’ll never be held.

He used to sit across from me in the café on 3rd Street.

Always with the same book, always with that same worn-out denim jacket.

I memorized the way his fingers curled around a cup,

the way his lips moved silently when he read.

He never looked at me like I looked at him.

He was kind, always.

But kindness isn’t the same as love, is it?

There were moments when I thought he might feel it.

Like that Tuesday when our hands brushed reaching for the sugar.

He smiled. Said, “You first.”

I laughed too quickly. He didn’t notice.

He talked about a woman once.

Her name was soft, maybe Emily.

He said she made him feel "safe."

I wanted to ask what that meant—to feel safe with someone.

I didn’t. I just nodded.

Told him she sounded wonderful.

He smiled. Again.

That smile could split me in two.

I never told him. Not once.

Not even in passing.

Instead, I carried it—my quiet devotion—like a secret note folded tightly in my chest.

Some mornings, I’d wake up and pretend he was still beside me,

even though he never was.

Now he’s gone.

Not gone-gone, just… moved.

A different city. A different love.

He hugged me goodbye, said,

“Take care of yourself, alright?”

And I did.

I do.

But some loves don’t ask for closure.

Some hearts learn to beat around the silence.

I loved him.

Still do, in some fragile way.

Like rain on a roof:

Soft, persistent, unheard.

But always falling.

Unrequited Love, Poetic Prose, Soft Heartbreak, Romantic Fiction, Human Emotion