You're still my secret,
but not in the way that leaves my heart racing anymore.
It's quieter now,
like a book I used to read on endless loops,
its pages dog-eared,
its words memorized.
But I think you know.
I think your friends know too.
The way they glance at me,
smirks hovering like whispers they won't say aloud.
But she doesn't.
She talks about you like you're a star she just discovered,
her voice alight with wonder,
her cheeks brushing pink like a summer dusk.
And I listen,
pretending her words don't pull at old strings.
I nod, I smile,
as if her dreams aren't the shadow of what mine once were.
It's not about wanting you anymore,
but about the way the air feels heavy when you're near.
Like a conversation left unfinished,
a story I didn't write the ending for.
It's the way she mentions your name
and my skin prickles, not with longing,
but with the weight of what was.
Or what almost was.
Or what never could be.
I laugh when she laughs,
play the role I've grown used to
the sidekick, the confidante,
the friend who knows too much.
But it's strange now,
this act of being neutral,
when my history with you
is a secret no one asked for,
but everyone suspects.
Do I tell her?
That once, my heart skipped for the same reasons hers does now?
That I rehearsed your name in my head,
wrote it in margins I later erased?
Would it make a difference?
Would it change the way she sees you, sees me?
Would it make the air between us clearer,
or just heavier with truths better left unsaid?
I don't want to root for her,
but I don't want to stop her either.
She's kind. She's sweet.
She doesn't deserve the awkwardness of my old scars.
But every time I cheer her on,
it feels like betraying the girl I used to be.
The one who once held you close in daydreams,
before reality pushed me aside.
So I keep quiet.
I let her stories flow,
let her excitement fill the spaces
where my silence settles.
I laugh when I'm supposed to.
I tease her like I mean it.
But every time she talks about you,
it's like watching a rerun of my own almost,
only with a brighter ending.
You're still my secret,
but now it's awkward,
not because I want you,
but because I don't.
And yet,
I think you know I once did.
I think your friends know too.
And it makes me wonder
Do you think of me?
Are you remembering my glance,
my laugh,
my part in a story that never became ours?
I don't want to hold on.
But letting go feels like erasing
the parts of myself you once touched.
So here I am,
caught in the middle of her happiness and my past,
trying to decide whether to stay a silent observer,
or finally let this secret fade.
Because maybe,
just maybe,
it's time to let her have the story
I never got to tell.
