I watch you even when you look away,

trying to read the quiet tremor in your breath,

trying to understand a sadness you never name,

and every time I see it in your eyes, something inside me breaks.


You asked me who I truly love,

not knowing the question itself was a wound,

not knowing you were asking me to hand you the one thing

that could ruin the only friendship keeping me standing.


How do I tell you it is you,

when saying it risks losing the small part of your world

where I still exist,

where your voice still reaches me without hesitation.


I know the way your face shifts when you are truly happy,

I know the light your eyes carry when life feels gentle to you,

and this version of you, the tired one, the quiet one,

is not the one you deserve to be.


It hurts in a way I cannot explain,

to watch you pretend you are fine,

to see you fading behind silence

while I stand helpless on the other side of your walls.


If I could tell you what you mean to me,

I would place the truth in your hands without trembling,

I would say your name the way I say prayers,

steady, terrified, honest.


But I am scared.

Scared of losing the only friend who feels like home,

scared of not being enough for you,

scared that if you knew the truth, you would walk away without turning back.


So I sit here, in the quiet hours after midnight,

thinking of the distance you built between us,

thinking of the coldness that was never there before,

thinking of how your absence still fills every corner of my day.


And I wonder how a single question from you

became a storm inside me,

how the answer you wanted

is the same answer I have never managed to say aloud.


It is you.

It has always been you.

But I keep the words locked in my chest,

and they burn there, night after night,

while you drift farther from me

without ever knowing

how much I ache for you

and how much of me you already hold.