I stare out the window, watching raindrops race down the glass. Each drop feels like a tear I can't shed. My world has always been small—just me and my books, my thoughts, and the soft glow of my laptop screen. But now, it feels infinitely vast and achingly empty. My eyes, as always, were drawn to her. She sat three tables away. Her laughter, soft and melodic, drifted over the hushed whispers of studying students. I tried to focus on the words before me, but they blurred into meaningless shapes.
"Some of us are born to love from afar, our hearts beating in sync with a rhythm only we can hear."
I first saw her on an autumn day, leaves crunching under my feet as I hurried to class. She was sitting on a bench, sunlight playing in her hair, completely absorbed in a battered copy of "Pride and Prejudice." I nearly tripped, struck by a sudden, overwhelming urge to sit beside her and discuss Austen's wit and social commentary. But my feet carried me past, my tongue tied in knots I couldn't hope to unravel. That night, I dreamt of conversations we'd never have, of shared laughter over inside jokes we'd never create. I woke with tears on my pillow and a heaviness in my chest that never quite lifted.
"Dreams are the cruelest magic; they show us worlds just out of reach, leaving us to wake in a reality that feels colorless by comparison." Days blended into weeks, then months. I learned her routines and her habits. The way she always ordered a chai before her morning classes. How she'd scrunch her nose when concentrating on a difficult problem. The small, secret smile she'd wear when reading a particularly good book. I collected these details like precious gems, hoarding them in the quiet caverns of my heart. But I remained a shadow, never daring to step into her light.
"Loving someone you can't have is like holding your breath underwater—eventually, you have to come up for air or drown in the depths of your longing."
There were moments—fleeting, heart-stopping moments—when our eyes would meet across a crowded room. For a split second, I'd allow myself to hope. Maybe this time I'd find the courage to smile, to wave, to speak. But then she'd look away, and the moment would shatter like spun glass. "We are all constellations of missed opportunities, shining brightly with the light of 'what-ifs' and 'if-onlys'." As graduation approached, desperate panic clawed at my throat. Soon, she'd be gone, off to pursue dreams I could only imagine. And I'd be left behind, haunted by the ghost of a love that never had a chance to live. One day, in desperation, I decided to write her a letter. I poured my heart onto the page, confessing every stolen glance, every imagined conversation, and every ache of longing. I wrote of the person I wished I could be for her and of the love I'd carry with me always, even if she never knew. "Sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is to love without expectation of return, to cast our hearts into the void and hope they find a gentle landing." With trembling hands, I sealed the envelope. For hours, I carried it with me, the weight of unspoken words burning a hole in my pocket. But as I saw her laughing with friends, radiant and carefree, my resolve crumbled. That night, I sat alone in my room, tears blurring the ink as I read the letter one last time. Then, with a shaky breath, I struck a match and watched as the flames consumed my confession, reducing years of silent love to ashes.
"We are all made of stardust, but some of us are meant to admire the constellations from afar, never quite brave enough to reach out and touch them."
As I watched her walk across the stage at graduation, my heart swelled with a bittersweet mix of pride and sorrow. She was moving on to a future full of possibility, while I remained rooted in place, forever changed by a love that existed only in the quiet corners of my mind. Months have passed, but I still think of her.
On quiet nights, when the world feels too big and too small all at once, I wonder if she ever felt the weight of my gaze, if she ever sensed the depth of my unspoken devotion. And though the pain has dulled to a gentle ache, I know a part of me will always be that shy boy in the library, watching her from afar, forever in love with a dream just out of reach.
"In the end, we are all just characters in each other's stories. Some of us are protagonists, some are supporting roles, and some—like me—are merely footnotes, destined to be remembered only in the quietest moments of reflection."
~The Dark Streeters
