Love Grows
I don’t know when I first realized I was in love with Rosie. Maybe it was one of those sunlit afternoons, sitting side by side on a worn-out park bench, watching the world pass by as she talked. She had a way of making everything seem vivid and alive, like she was gathering all the colors of the world and casting them onto whatever blank space she saw.
It was subtle, almost too gentle to notice at first, like the way spring sneaks up on you in small increments—a budding flower here, a warmer breeze there. I told myself it was admiration, that I was just enamored by her courage, her conviction. But then I found myself lingering on every little thing: the way her voice softened when she spoke about her dreams, the way her laugh was a little louder, a little bolder than mine could ever be.
But loving her hurt, too. It was a love that grew in the cracks, under shadow and soil, something hidden and delicate, forever stretching toward her, like a flower seeking sunlight. It was a love laced with regret, because for every moment we spent together, there was always the knowledge that we were too fragile to last.
I loved her like I loved the past—a constant, aching nostalgia. But I could never tell her, not really. My love was something quiet, something I kept hidden beneath layers of fear and shame, a love that dared not speak its own name.
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everything platonic ✓
ChickLiti tried my best to describe her resemblance with art. she did not believe me. she believed those days when crowds whispered around the halls; she believed her mind which told her that she was not capable of love; she believed in the dreadful night a...
