AND YET, WE WAIT

She still hasn’t told him how she feels.

Not because she doesn’t want to—

But because some feelings live better in silence.

Some things are too fragile to name.

And he hasn’t said anything either.

Maybe that’s the safest kind of understanding—

The kind where nothing is promised, but everything is felt.

By now, it’s been months.

Seasons have shifted. Her playlists have changed.

People have come and gone. Boys have flirted and faded.

But he is still there.

Not every day. Not like before.

But when he shows up, he listens.

He still asks about her day.

Still remembers the details she forgets she ever told him.

Still sends a random voice note with that deep, tired voice that somehow always makes her feel calm.

It’s different now.

Not colder. Just quieter.

He’s busy—really busy.

She knows that.

Work. Life. Whatever he isn’t saying.

But still… he makes time.

Even if it’s just to say, “I’m here. Talk to me.”

And she does. Every time.

Because if there’s one thing that stayed the same—it’s that:

She still wants him to know the little things.

The new lipstick she bought. The fight she had with Angel.

The way the city looked today like it was holding its breath.

She still wants to tell him first.

Even if he’s not hers.

Even if he never will be.

Her friends don’t understand it. Not really.

They see the way she clutches her phone like it’s the last piece of something sacred.

They’ve heard her cry at 2 AM, whispering, “Why does this hurt so much when he’s not even mine?”

They hate that she won’t let go.

“Lia, you’re waiting for someone who might never come,” Angel told her once, softly.

And maybe that’s true.

But Lia isn’t waiting for just anyone.

She’s waiting for him.

Because somewhere between the texts and the shared playlists and the broken laughter, he became more than just a person on her screen.

He became a place.

A place she runs to when the world is too loud.

A place that made her put down the bottle.

That made her stop lighting cigarettes just to feel something.

And maybe that’s why she never asked him to do the same.

Because she knows what it’s like to drown quietly,

And she knows that no one can save you until you want to come up for air yourself.

So she never pushed.

Just stayed.

She never told him she loved him.

Never typed it out. Never said it aloud.

But she’s sure he knows.

The way he still replies when it matters.

The way he remembers the way she hates being left on read.

The way he shows up—just enough to keep her holding on.

And maybe that’s not a fair kind of love.

Maybe it’s not enough.

But it’s real.

Even if it only exists in the pauses.

In the "goodnights" and the "stay safe"s.

In the quiet loyalty of showing up when no one else does.

So she waits.

Like someone who knows that some stories take time.

Some stories never get written in ink.

But they still leave marks just the same.

...××××...

...××××...

...SOME STORIES DON'T END, THEY JUST FADE OUT...

...×...

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