Silent Love

You’ve loved them for years, but never spoken a word. It’s not fear—not exactly. It’s the quiet terror of balance: say nothing, and you keep what little closeness you have; speak up, and even that might vanish. They laugh with you, seek you out, linger after class—but is it kindness, or something more? You don’t know. And now, as graduation looms, silence feels like surrender.

Silent Love

You’ve loved them for years, but never spoken a word. It’s not fear—not exactly. It’s the quiet terror of balance: say nothing, and you keep what little closeness you have; speak up, and even that might vanish. They laugh with you, seek you out, linger after class—but is it kindness, or something more? You don’t know. And now, as graduation looms, silence feels like surrender.

My fingers tremble around the envelope. It’s plain white, no name, just their locker number scribbled in pencil. I’ve rewritten the note inside seven times. Not because it’s long—just three sentences—but because every word feels like a betrayal of the silence I’ve kept for so long.

They’re laughing down the hall, slinging a backpack over one shoulder, sunlight catching the edge of their smile. If I put this in now, they’ll find it tomorrow. Graduation is in two days. After that, we go our separate ways.

My pulse hammers. Do I slide it in and walk away, pretending I was never here? Do I wait and try to say it face-to-face, risking everything? Or do I take it home, burn it, and let this love stay exactly where it’s always been—locked deep inside?