Unspoken

“The heart breaks quietly, like a wave folding into itself—soft but deadly.”

The morning sun in Thrissur had a way of spilling into the narrow spaces between the curtains in my room, like a secret trying to be heard. I lay there, unmoving, listening to the chirping outside and the muffled voices from the kitchen downstairs. Another school morning for my younger brothers—Joel and Ethan. Another quiet war in the house.

I was in the second year of my Pharm.D now, and yet every day still felt like I was walking barefoot on glass. My home, though painted in soft pastels and decorated with crucifixes in every corner, never felt like peace. My sister Clara, always the favorite, made sure to belittle me in ways only siblings know how. My mother Ann—a pharmacist herself—was her loyal audience, clapping for every taunt Clara threw. My father Thomas stayed silent as always, sipping his tea like the chaos wasn’t even there. I had learned early that if I raised my voice, I was ‘disrespectful.’ If I stayed quiet, I was ‘too sensitive.’

But that year, the noise outside wasn’t the loudest thing in my life. The loudest thing was silence. The silence from Noah—my best friend from first year. The boy who once knew every shade of my emotions. The boy who I secretly fell in love with.

We met under the big gulmohar tree near the football ground on our very first week of college. I was shy, awkward, overly mature for my age. He was sunshine. The kind of boy who called me “Kie” with that casual warmth and shared his tiffin with me without asking. We laughed too much. We texted too often. Everyone thought we were together, but he never said anything… and neither did I.

Then, one day—he was gone. A petty fight. A storm of misunderstanding. And before I knew it, he dropped out.

I still remember checking my phone on a dull Thursday evening, scrolling through Instagram like a ritual of self-torture, and there it was—his story. A blurry cafe table. Two iced coffees. A girl’s hand wearing a silver bracelet I had never seen before. The caption read:

 “Grateful for her.” ❤️

I zoomed into her nails. I zoomed out again. My eyes couldn’t move. My breath went shallow. And just like that, my entire first year of laughter, comfort, shared chips, and library hours—all of it collapsed like a building in slow motion.

I wanted to throw up. I didn’t. I wanted to cry. I didn’t.

Instead, I shut my phone and walked into the kitchen to help Amma cut vegetables. She didn’t say thank you. She just handed me the knife and scolded me for not washing my hands.

That night, I cried into my pillow until my eyes burned, then blamed it on allergies the next

Some nights, I’d lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, remembering the smallest things. The way he’d ruffle his hair when he was nervous. The way his eyes squinted slightly when he laughed too hard. The way he used to save me the last piece of his chocolate—even when I insisted I didn’t want it.

I used to think we were just friends. Just close. Just… comfortable. But only after losing him did I understand what that comfort really meant. It wasn’t just friendship. It was safety. It was home.

And I never told him.

How stupid is that? That you can spend hours with someone, make them part of your routine, your jokes, your coffee breaks and your late-night texts—without realizing they’d slipped into your heart silently. Like rain soaking through your clothes before you notice you’re drenched.

I thought I had time.

I thought, maybe after exams, maybe next semester, maybe when things settle down. But people don’t always wait. And some leave before you even understand what they meant to you.

After he left, a strange emptiness settled in me. Not loud, not dramatic—just a dull ache that followed me into classrooms, canteen lines, and bus rides. I’d catch myself turning to say something to him, then remember he wasn’t there. I stopped going near the tree where we used to sit. I avoided songs we both liked. Even colors reminded me of him.

There were days I’d draft messages and never send them.

 “Hey, I saw someone who looked like you today.”

“Do you remember that time we laughed so hard during that boring seminar?”

“I miss you.”

But I deleted every one of them.

Because what would it change?

He was already smiling in someone else’s story. And I was just the girl who didn’t speak up in time.

The regret is the worst part. It crawls under your skin. It whispers: You had your chance. You should’ve known. You were a coward.

I even started blaming myself. Maybe I wasn’t interesting enough. Maybe I talked too much. Maybe I was always just his backup. His listener. His convenience.

Maybe he never felt anything at all.

That thought alone was enough to keep me awake on countless nights.

At college, I became quieter. My friends noticed, but I brushed it off. “Just tired,” I’d say. “Just stressed.” But inside, I was unraveling. Slowly. Secretly. I stopped writing in my journal. I stopped praying. I stopped feeling anything except the weight of what I had lost… and what I never really had.

And yet, I missed him every single day.

Even now, I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if I had just told him. Even once. Even in the smallest way.

 “Hey… I think I like you.”

Would he have stayed?

Or was I just a chapter in his life, while he was the whole story in mine?