The One I Never Had

From the very first moment I saw her, I knew deep down I didn’t stand a chance. Something in the way she moved through the world told me she belonged to a different rhythm, a different light. And me? I was just a shadow following that light around, hoping just hoping it would notice me one day.

But that didn’t stop me.

In fact, it only pulled me closer.

I did everything I could for her quietly, from the sidelines. I carried her burdens when she didn’t ask. I stayed up late just to reply to her messages within seconds, even if all she said was something as simple as “Hey, what’s up?” I listened more than I spoke. Observed more than I admitted. And somewhere in all of it, I started building this bold, almost reckless truth inside me:
I loved her.

Fully. Painfully. Selfishly.

But she never loved me.

Not in the way I loved her. And perhaps not at all.

She spoke to me like a friend, and sometimes not even that. I was a listener, a space where she could empty her thoughts. A presence that asked nothing and gave everything.

And I accepted that role, even when it tore me apart.

I remember the nights when she talked about her past relationships. The way her voice softened or cracked with laughter when she recalled the boys she had loved, the ones who had made her smile and cry and grow. She spoke with nostalgia, sometimes with regret. And while she might’ve thought she was just sharing stories, those stories cut me.

Every name she mentioned, every moment she relived, felt like a dagger not because she had a past, but because I wasn’t part of it. Because I knew I was just another chapter she’d never write.

It hurt.
God, it hurt so much.

But I chose to get hurt.

Because in those moments of honesty, I saw parts of her I never would have otherwise. And even if it meant bleeding a little, I wanted to know her completely. Every scar, every joy, every mistake I welcomed them like pieces of a puzzle I was desperate to complete.

She was like a drug.

Addictive, dangerous, and impossible to quit. Just being around her gave me a high nothing else could. Maybe it was oxytocin. Maybe it was foolishness. But it didn’t matter because the feeling was real. When she laughed, I laughed. When she cried, I felt it in my chest. Her mood became mine. Her world became the one I lived in, even though I never really belonged in it.

I tried, in my own quiet ways, to tell her how I felt.

Through songs I recommended. Through late-night conversations that danced close to the edge of truth. Through the way I looked at her a second longer than I should have, hoping just hoping she’d see it.

But she never did.

And maybe that was partly my fault. Because I never told her.
Not directly. Not clearly. Not with the trembling honesty she deserved.

The truth is, I was scared.

Scared of losing even the little I had with her. Scared that if I said it, she’d pull away. That the little connection we had would snap, and I’d be left with nothing but silence.

So I stayed quiet.
Loved her in silence.
Suffered in silence.

And even now, when I look back, I don’t regret loving her. But I do regret never letting her know. Because maybe, just maybe, if I had spoken, she would’ve seen me differently. Or maybe not. But at least then I wouldn’t be haunted by the “what ifs.”

She was never mine. Not even for a moment.

But in some way, she’ll always be a part of me.
The one I never had.
The one who taught me what it meant to love without conditions.
And the one who will never know she was loved that deeply.