life as poems 'n letters

She wasn’t perfect. She knew that in the first place—

Especially attractive, or the most intelligent person in the room.

She wasn’t the type—the kind of woman who effortlessly warms the room, who always has the right words at the right moment, and who walks in and brightens everything. Those who make love seem effortless.

That wasn’t her.

She was more like the ocean—calm on the surface, but carrying a thousand unspoken things underneath. Unspoken, unread, and unaltered, she allowed words to linger in the recesses of her heart. She never knew how to allow them to surface in time, not because she didn’t feel them.

Because she had always been afraid of what would happen if she did.

She had witnessed the destructive power of unbridled emotions, how they could overflow, become harsh, and shatter irreparable things. Words, once spoken, could wound deeper than silence, a lesson she had learned early on.

She had seen her mother break down, with doors slamming, words flying like knives, and a voice raised that reverberated long after the echoes had subsided. “I will never be like that,” she had vowed to herself.

Thus, she suppressed her emotions, kept herself composed, and told herself that peace was preferable to chaos. Vulnerability was inferior to that control.

That she would never turn into what she feared if she didn’t allow herself to feel too much.

Silence, she told herself, was patience. It was understanding to wait, that she was strong enough to endure things on her own because she swallowed them.

She was wrong.

Because he had loved her. She knew that now. Perhaps not in the effortless, instinctive way that didn’t require guessing. He had attempted to meet her halfway in his own way.

But, she made him wonder.

She made him question.

And she had assumed that meant she was exercising caution, thinking things through, and speaking only when absolutely necessary. He wasn’t the type of man who could live with unspoken things, though, and that was the issue.

She had anticipated that he would read between the lines, would see her hesitation before responding, and would realize that when she said, “I don’t mind,” she really meant, “Please stay.”

But he wasn’t a mind reader.

And she hadn’t told him either.

She had never expressed her longing for him before he had even left the room. That she looked at her phone too much, expecting to see his name. She forgot that love is something you show, not something you think about.

She had given him silence and expected him to stay.

And perhaps she would have been the type of woman who felt like sunshine in a different life, in a different version of herself. Instead of watching him turn away, she might have reached for his hand.

Maybe she would have found the courage to say everything before it was too late.

But this was not that life.

And she was still the woman who left too many things unsaid.