I Loved You Silently, But Entirely

I Loved You Silently, But Entirely

You never knew.
And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most.

I memorized your smile before I even realized what I was doing.
I noticed the way your eyes softened when you talked about the things you loved.
I held entire conversations with you in my head — the kind I never had the courage to say out loud.

I wasn’t silent because I didn’t feel.
I was silent because I felt too much.
Too deeply.
Too quickly.
Too unreasonably for a world that demands explanation for every emotion.

You were my calm in a chaotic mind.
My distraction and my focus all at once.
You were never mine.
But I was yours, quietly, for a very long time.


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There were moments I thought maybe you saw it —
in the way I lingered too long,
in the way I laughed a little too easily when you spoke,
or in the silence that fell after you left the room.

But you never said anything.
And I never did either.
We danced in the space between “almost” and “never was.”

I wonder now,
if I’d said something — anything —
would it have changed everything?

Or would I have just ruined
the one place I felt closest to you…
even if only in my imagination?


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Time passed.
We drifted.
Life moved on,
as it always does.

But still, on quiet nights,
when the world slows and I am alone with my thoughts,
you return.

Not as a regret.
Not even as a wound.
But as something softer.
Something sacred.
A love that never asked to be returned — only remembered.


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You’ll never know how much of me belonged to you,
without ever asking.
You’ll never know how many times your name stayed behind my lips,
just waiting to be spoken.

I loved you silently.
But entirely.


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