Weeks passed, and without realizing when it happened, we grew closer. Our conversations felt easier now. More natural. Even the silences didn't feel like gaps anymore—they felt shared.
That day, there was a program at school.
I saw her dance.
She moved with a kind of ease that made everything else disappear. Every step felt deliberate, confident, alive. There was no hesitation in her expression, no second-guessing in her body. She wasn't guarded there. She wasn't holding anything back.
She was amazing.
I didn't clap louder than the rest. I didn't react in any noticeable way. But inside, I felt something quiet and full—like pride, mixed with awe. Like seeing someone you care about exactly where they belong.
After the program ended, I saw her again.
She was standing with a guy, talking.
At first, I didn't think much of it. But then I noticed her expression. The way her shoulders were slightly tense. The way she avoided eye contact. The brightness from the stage was gone, replaced by something heavier.
She looked sad. Maybe troubled.
I didn't go closer. I didn't ask. I just watched for a moment, then turned away.
I went home with that image still in my head.
That evening, we texted like usual.
I told her how good the dance was. How confident she looked. How natural it felt watching her perform. I meant every word.
She thanked me.
But something felt… off.
Her replies were slower. Shorter. The warmth was still there, but muted—like she was carrying something she hadn't put down yet. I hesitated for a while, then finally asked if everything was okay.
She didn't reply immediately.
When she did, she explained.
She told me a close friend had confessed to her after the program. Someone she cared about deeply—but not in that way. She said she had rejected him gently, honestly. She told him she didn't feel the same.
She said that part wasn't what hurt the most.
What hurt was knowing what came after.
She told me she didn't want to lose him. That she wanted things to stay the same. That she wanted to keep him as a friend. He had said he understood. He had said it was okay.
But she had heard that before.
She told me that people always said they were fine. That they could stay. That things wouldn't change.
And then, slowly, they disappeared.
She said everyone eventually went away.
Every time love appeared, it took a friend with it. Every time she chose honesty, she still lost something. She said she was tired of pretending it didn't hurt.
That night, she talked more than usual.
About love. About how it always complicated things. About how it arrived uninvited and left damage behind.
She said love had a way of turning people into strangers. Of taking something simple and twisting it until friendships collapsed under the weight of expectations. She said every time love entered her life, it took something with it when it left.
Friends. Comfort. Safety.
She said she hated it.
Not loudly. Not angrily. Just tired.
I read her messages slowly, one after another. There were no sharp words, no accusations—only exhaustion. The kind that builds when you've seen the same ending too many times.
As she kept talking, something in her tone shifted.
Her sentences grew shorter. Less certain. Like she was holding herself together, but barely.
I felt uneasy.
Not because of what she said—but because of how much she had already lost to it.
I thought about us. About the nights we talked. About the way she leaned on me without realizing it. About how she trusted me with the parts of herself she didn't show anyone else.
And I realized something.
What I felt wasn't love. At least, not the kind she was afraid of.
It wasn't longing. It wasn't possession. It wasn't the need to be chosen.
It was something quieter.
Gratitude.
For the first time, someone needed me. Not for answers. Not for solutions. Just… to be there.
She relied on me. She trusted me. She let me help carry things she couldn't carry alone.
That gave me something I'd never had before.
Purpose.
Not the kind people talk about grandly—but the small, steady kind. The kind that makes you want to show up. The kind that makes you careful with your words. The kind that makes you stay.
I thought about how meeting her had felt like a fluke.
I still couldn't remember where I first saw her. Or if that sense of familiarity had ever been real. Whether it was memory or imagination, I didn't know.
But I knew this was real.
The person in front of me. The one speaking honestly. The one hurting quietly.
And I knew what I wanted.
To protect that. Not claim it. Not change it. Just protect it.
I didn't plan what I said next.
I didn't think about how it would sound.
I just typed.
And before I could doubt it, the words were already sent.
"lyra i would never fall in love with you, so u don't have to worry about losing me like that. Atleast not me."
And then her message came.
She said she was smiling.
She said that I really was the imperfectly perfect person for her.
The words made my chest feel tight in a way I wasn't prepared for.
Suddenly, I became very aware of what I had said. Of how blunt it sounded. Of how easily those words had left me without permission. I felt embarrassed—like I had revealed something too honest, too vulnerable, without meaning to.
I typed back quickly, awkwardly, trying to soften it. I told her I hadn't thought before sending it. That it just came out. That maybe I'd worded it badly.
She told me it was okay.
She told me she understood what I meant.
And somehow, that made it worse—in a good way.
That night, the conversation slowed gently instead of ending. We talked about small things again. Familiar things. But something about it felt warmer now, steadier. Like a line had been drawn—not forward, not backward—but beside each other.
When the chat finally quieted down, I stayed staring at the screen longer than usual.
I thought about her.
About the way she danced so freely. About how tired she sounded when she talked about love. About how easily she leaned on me without realizing she was doing it.
And without meaning to, a thought settled in.
I wanted to stay.
Not to change her. Not to save her. Just to be there—consistently. Quietly. To take care of her in the small ways that mattered. To stand by her side, even if that side was only ever beside, never in front.
Forever felt like too big a word.
But staying didn't.
For a few days after that, everything felt normal.
We texted. We joked. We shared the usual pieces of our days.
And then—
One day, there was nothing.
No message.
No reply.
I checked again later. Still nothing.
I told myself she was busy.
That she'd reply when she could.
But as the hours passed—
And then days—
The quiet felt different.
It wasn't the comfortable silence I was used to.
It was unfamiliar.
And for the first time in my life, I felt afraid of it.