The Way It Began
I didn't fall in love all at once.
It would've been easier if I had something sudden, something loud. Something I could point and say there...that was the moment everything changed.
But it didn't happen like that.
It happened quietly.
In glances that lasted a second to long. In conversations that felt to easy. In the strange comfort of being understood without trying
You didn't arrive like a storm.
You arrived like peace
The first time we spoke, it wasn't anything special At least that is what I told myself.
You asked a simple question-- something I don't even remember now--and I answered with more words than I usually give anyone. That should've been my first warning.
I was never the kind of person that spoke freely.
Not out loud at least.
My thoughts lived in pages, not in conversations. In ink, not in sound.
And then somehow, you made it feel safe to bring them out.
I started to notice small things.
The way your voice softened when you were being sincere. The way you laughed without holding back. The way you looked at me--not past me, not through me--but at me, like I was someone worth seeing.
It was unfamiliar.
And maybe that's why I held onto it.
I think I loved you. Before I understood what love was.
Before I knew how dangerous it could be to feel seen by the wrong person at the right time.
We didn't rush.
That's what made it feel so real.
There was no pressure, no sudden declarations. Just steady unfolding--like a story writing itself without asking for permission.
Days turned into conversations. Conversations turned into something I started depending on.
And somewhere in between, you became a part of my routine.
Not in a way that felt forced.
In a way that felt necessary.
I began to wait for you.
Not obviously. Not in ways anyone else could see. But in the small pauses of my day.
Checking my phone more than I needed to. Replaying your words when things went quiet. Smiling at nothing, just because something reminded me of you.
It wasn't subtle.
But it was happening.
You didn't ask for my heart.
You didn't need to.
I handed it to you in pieces-- disguised as attention, disguised as "it's nothing."
Looking back, I think I mistook comfort for safety.
You felt like somewhere I could rest. And I was used to holding everything in, carrying everything alone, that I didn't question it.
I didn't stop to ask if I was giving to much.
I didn't notice how easily I started choosing you over myself.
Because at the time, it didn't feel like loosing.
It felt like gaining something I had been missing.
There's a kind of happiness that doesn't make noise.
It doesn't shout. It doesn't demand attention.
It just sits quietly in your chest and makes everything feel... lighter.
That's what you were.
Not chaos. Not confusion. Just something gentle.
Something I didn't think I had to protect myself from.
If I could go back, I wouldn't stop myself from loving you.
I would just remind myself not to disappear while doing it
I didn't know then how much of me I would give away.
I didn't know how quiet the breaking would be,
All I knew was that for the first time in a long time--
I felt seen.
And I stayed.
