I never told you what I felt because I didn’t trust the words to come out soft enough. So I let it show in smaller ways. The way I remembered things you never said out loud. The way I stayed a little longer even when I had nothing left to give.

I wasn’t withholding. I was protecting something fragile – yours, mine, maybe both. Because I knew the weight of my honesty could bend the space between us in ways we might not come back from.

There were nights I almost let it spill. Moments where your hand brushed mine, and the truth surged to the surface like breath held too long. But I swallowed it, because loving you in silence still felt closer than losing you to the noise.

You called me calm. But I was just careful. There is a difference between being unaffected and being unwilling to break what feels too rare to rebuild.

And so I loved you quietly. Not because I didn’t want more, but because I wanted you more than I wanted to be understood.