Only Me

Only Me

I think I was the only one loving you— quietly, carefully, like a secret I was afraid to hold too tight.

I didn’t even know you, just your name, your game, the way you moved like the world was watching.

But I watched differently.

Not like them— not like the laughter, not like the teasing voices that turned my feelings into something loud and messy.

Mine was soft. Too soft to survive in noise.

They said your name like a joke, like it didn’t carry my heart inside it, and I smiled— pretended I didn’t care.

Even when it spread, even when everyone knew, even when you knew.

And maybe that’s when everything changed.

Because your eyes— they didn’t look like mine. Mine were full of quiet hope. Yours… held something colder.

Still, I stayed.

Even when you chose someone else, even when she stood beside me and told me what you said— I nodded, I laughed, I said, “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t.

Because I was still the only one loving you.

I built stories to replace you, imaginary hands to hold, imaginary love to prove that I had already moved on.

But my heart— it didn’t listen.

It kept running back to you in crowded places, in passing glances, in the space between seeing and pretending not to see.

And even after the words— the ones that hurt the most— I tried to believe them.

Maybe I’m too much. Maybe I’m not enough. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t choose me.

But somewhere, deep under the noise, there’s a small voice saying:

“Love shouldn’t feel like this.”

So now my heart and mind argue— one still reaching for you, the other slowly learning to let go.

And maybe one day I won’t be the only one loving you.

Maybe one day I’ll be the one finally loving myself instead.