He never said I love you.
Never claimed me.
Never introduced me as someone important.
But still…
He held my hand when we crossed the road.
He adjusted the fan when I looked too warm.
He'd remind me to eat, even when he didn't eat with me.
Every time I slept over, no matter how late we stayed up
He always made me a cup of tea in the morning.
He never asked if I wanted it.
He just brought it. Quietly. Gently.
Like a ritual.
And for a few seconds, it made me feel safe.
It made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I was seen.
Those little gestures…
They weren't grand.
But they carried weight.
So I held onto them.
Told myself they meant something deeper.
That maybe he wasn't saying much, but he was showing it.
I started reading into everything.
The way he rested his hand on my knee.
The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching.
The way he'd say,
"Let me know when you get home,"
Even if he didn't text again after that.
But then, just when I started to feel like there was something real here
He'd go cold.
Detached.
Distant.
He wouldn't lash out.
He just withdrew, like I was reaching for something I shouldn't have.
That push and pull taught me to celebrate crumbs like they were meals.
To find warmth in half-gestures.
To believe that almost being loved was enough.
And it wasn't.
What hope does…
It softens your standards.
It keeps you waiting for things that should've been yours without asking
He didn't love me.
But he did just enough to make me stay.
And in the end, it wasn't the absence that broke me,
It was the nearness without closeness.
But even in all that,
there was this aching silence that never left.
I'd sit on his couch, feet tucked under me,
trying to feel at home in a place I was never invited to stay.
I noticed everything.
The way he always put his phone face-down.
The way I was always the one asking, "When can I see you again?"
It was a quiet imbalance,
and I carried the weight of both our emotions like it was normal.
When he smiled at me, I smiled back like it meant something.
Even when I knew it might just be habit.
Even when I knew I wanted more,
and he was giving all he could, which wasn't much.
Sometimes he'd say things like,
"You're cool to have around."
And I'd take it like a gift.
But deep down, I was starving for real words.
For real presence.
For a love that didn't make me feel like I had to earn it every time I showed up.
I wanted him to choose me.
Not just when it was convenient.
Not just when it was late and he was lonely.
But in daylight. In public. In truth.
Instead, I got the version of him that held my hand
But never held space for my feelings.
And the thing is,
you can't build a relationship on gestures.
Not when the words never come.
Not when your heart is the only one making room.
I thought he was loving me in his own way.
But now I know:
He was just giving what he had,
And I was the one turning it into love.