There’s something incredibly heavy about loving someone with your whole heart but not being allowed to say it out loud.
I wish I could tell her how much I love her.
Always have.
Always will.
But she won’t let me.
She says it’s because of her past — the things she’s been through, the wounds I’ll never fully understand. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I don’t understand. But I want to. God, I really want to.
I’ve been trying to teach myself a different kind of love. One that doesn't need to be loud. One that isn’t wrapped in “I love you”s or good morning texts or surprises she finds cringe. One that doesn’t overwhelm her.
I’m learning how to love her quietly — in the way I hold space for her, in the way I step back when she needs distance, in the way I stay even when it hurts.
But the truth is… it’s not easy.
My overthinking mind doesn't always cooperate. It questions everything.
Why won’t she let me in?
Am I enough?
Is she pushing me away, or just protecting herself?
There are nights when I lie awake, replaying conversations, wondering if I said too much or too little, wishing I could just be myself around her — the version of me that doesn’t have to tiptoe around his feelings.
But I can’t be that version. Not with her. Not yet.
So, I hold my love in silence. I bottle it up, keep it safe, and pour it into the small things — into patience, into presence, into understanding.
No lovey-dovey things. No grand gestures.
Just me, quietly choosing her. Every day.
I want her to know I’m here.
That I’m not going anywhere.
That I see her — not just the bright, brave parts, but the parts she hides. The parts that shake and flinch and pull back.
I don’t need her to say it back. I just want her to feel it.
And maybe someday, if not now… she will.