Pages of a One-Sided Heart

six

Our conversations became a cherished part of my days, even if they were sporadic. I kept the texts flowing, reaching out whenever I felt the urge, though I made sure not to overwhelm him. It was always me who initiated the messages, starting conversations that often meandered through memories, updates, and the occasional small talk.

I was acutely aware of the one-sided nature of this effort. He only remembered me as a friend from high school, a familiar face from a past that was now a distant memory for him. His responses were always polite and engaging, but I could sense the distance in his words, a reminder that our connection was now defined by the past rather than any present bond.

But I didn’t mind. I didn’t care that it was me reaching out, that I was the one making the effort to keep our conversations alive. My feelings were my own, and the joy of reconnecting with him, even in this limited way, was worth every moment. Each time I received a reply from him, it was like a small victory, a glimpse of the person I had once admired so deeply.

There were times when I wondered if he could sense the depth of my feelings through the casual exchanges, or if he ever saw me as more than just a friend from school. But those thoughts were fleeting. The connection we were rebuilding, however modest, was enough for me. It was a way to keep a part of him in my life, even if it was only through messages on a screen.