beautifulsoul_2025
There wasn't a storm.
No raised voices.
Just a pause.
A delay that grew arms and wrapped itself around my chest.
He said, "Get free."
I did.
I cleared the clock for him - and waited.
Not with anger, not with expectation - just that quiet, invisible hope we never speak aloud.
Minutes became hours.
Silence, the kind that stretches time.
And yet, when he finally wrote back, it wasn't an apology.
It was a mirror - reflecting how he thought I felt,
as if my heart was a riddle he didn't want to solve.
I had to tell him -
I'm not mad at the gaps between your replies.
I only ached when you invited me into your time,
then forgot I was already standing at the door.
But still, I forgave him before he even understood.
Because that's what love sometimes looks like -
not grand confessions, but soft shoulders and tired fingers
that type "I'm sorry" without waiting for one in return.
Then something changed.
Not loudly.
Not with fireworks.
But like when winter finally begins to exhale,
and you realise the ground had been thawing all along.
He started showing up.
In the quiet ways.
With late-night check-ins. With "Ishaaa."
With "I understand."
With "Tell me."
With "Sleep. Please."
He didn't promise forever.
He didn't open all his windows.
But he cracked the door.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough -
for now.
Because this isn't a story about falling in love.
This is a story about trying.
About message delays, missed moments, and the poetry of persistence.
It's about a girl who refused to let silence be the final word.
And a boy learning, slowly, that silence is not safety -
it's just a page waiting to be written on.