the weight of unspoken words 

“i thought you wouldn’t mind,”
you said,
but something about those words
settled heavy,
like stones in a river,
slowly sinking deeper
beneath the surface of what we shared.

you spoke without hesitation,
casually,
like the air between us
was as clear as the sky—
but i couldn’t breathe in it.
the silence between your words
grew louder,
a space i didn’t know how to fill.

i said nothing,
thinking you would see it,
the way my hands trembled
when you weren't looking,
the way my thoughts wandered
to places you’d never reach.
i didn’t speak because i thought
you already knew.
i thought you could hear
the ache in my silence,
feel the weight of my quiet.
but silence, you see,
can be a language
only the right person can speak.

i thought you knew me,
deeply,
as if you could trace the shape
of every unspoken fear,
every hidden longing
woven into the spaces between us.
but maybe,
you only knew the version
of me that fit neatly
into the shape of your world—
a world where my silence
was merely a pause,
and not a cry for understanding.

so here i stand,
with your words still echoing,
and a truth that stings:
you didn’t know.
you never really knew me.
not the way i needed you to.
not the way you thought you did.

and maybe that’s the real heartbreak—
the thought that we could’ve been understood,
but somehow,
we missed the language of each other.
we missed the moment
where words could’ve said what silence never could.

now, your words—
they float between us,
lingering like dust in a forgotten room.
i thought you wouldn’t mind.
but you did.
you did.