What If We Were More

It was never spoken, never defined. Just stolen moments between us—our hands brushing in passing, the way your gaze lingered a second too long, the way your voice softened when you said my name. I never dared to call it love, but my heart knew better.

I told myself not to fall. Not for you. Not for the way you laughed at my stupid jokes, not for the way you made silence feel safe. But love never listens to reason. It just happens—suddenly, completely, irreversibly.

And for a while, I thought maybe, just maybe, you felt it too. The late-night talks where we shared pieces of ourselves we had never given to anyone else. The way our shoulders pressed together like gravity had decided we belonged. The almosts, the unspoken words hanging between us, heavy with possibility.

But then you moved on. Like we were nothing. Like I was nothing.

I watched you fall for someone else, watched the way you looked at him, the way you smiled like he was the world. And I wondered—did I imagine it all? Was it just in my head, or were we something almost real?

What if I had been braver? What if I had told you? Would it have changed anything? Would you have chosen me?

Now, I see you in the arms of another, and I try to swallow the ache. Maybe I was just a chapter in your story while you were the whole book in mine.

But in another life, in another time—maybe we were more.