you were singing Fix You.
not in a performance way.
just humming with your guitar
like it was 3 a.m and no one was watching.
but I was.
I fucking was.
I sat next to you—
too close, too sudden—
and pretended to fix your chord.
you smiled.
didn't move away.
didn't say anything
when our fingers touched the same string.
your voice was soft.
not perfect.
but it cracked at all the right places.
especially when you whispered,
"lights will guide you home…"
and fuck—
I thought I might cry.
our eyes met.
that kind of eye contact
people write poems about
and still get it wrong.
and in that stupid, selfish, aching second,
I imagined—
maybe this girl
would sing every damn Coldplay song to me
on lazy sundays.
in her oversized shirts.
with messy hair
and half-drunk coffee on the table.
if only she was mine.
but she wasn't.
she never was.
she never knew
how I was already
fucking ruined by her voice.