I Wish I Had The Courage To Confess, As Fiercely As I’ve Fought To Bury Them In Silence
I have mastered the art of loving someone in silence. I’ve spent so much time perfecting it that it feels like second nature now, as if it’s the only way I know how to love. But even in my quiet devotion, I can’t help but wonder: What if I told you how I truly felt? Would the universe conspire to bring us closer, allowing the 27 bones in my hands to intertwine with yours, holding onto you as if you were my lifeline? Or would my hands tremble as yours pushed them away, leaving me to gather the broken pieces of what could have been?
I once read a comment on TikTok that said, “The more you keep your feelings hidden, the more they grow, and you’ll fall even harder for them.” It struck a chord so deep within me that I can’t forget it. It’s painfully true. The more I try to suppress these feelings, the stronger they become. You’re like gravity — an invisible force pulling me toward you, no matter how hard I try to resist. The more I deny it, the harder I fall, over and over again, as if loving you is a law of nature I cannot defy.
There are moments when I feel an overwhelming urge to tell you. The words build up inside me like a tidal wave, threatening to spill over. But I hold them back. I swallow my confessions and instead pour them into words — into pages of my diary, notes in my phone, and the articles I write. Almost everything I’ve written is about you. You’re in every sentence, every metaphor, every unwritten line lingering in my head.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? I can share my feelings with the world — let strangers read about the depth of my love, the weight of my silence — but I can’t share them with you. Of all the people, you’re the one person I never want to see these words. It’s not because I don’t want you to know; it’s because I’m terrified of what your knowing might do. What if it changes everything? What if it doesn’t?
And maybe, if I had even half the courage it takes to carry these feelings inside me every day without breaking, I could finally tell you. Maybe I could stand before you, look into your eyes, and let the words escape my trembling lips instead of letting them haunt the empty pages of my diary. But the truth is, I don’t know if my heart is strong enough to survive what might come after.
Because telling you isn’t just about confessing. It’s about handing you the most fragile parts of me — the hopes, the dreams, the quiet longing I’ve nurtured in silence for so long. It’s about risking everything I’ve held close, knowing there’s a chance you might not feel the same. And I don’t know if I can bear the thought of your eyes, the same ones I’ve memorized and admired, looking at me with pity — or worse, indifference.
Still, I wonder, what if? What if my courage outweighed my fear? What if I told you, and your hands didn’t push mine away but held onto them just as tightly? What if all the words I’ve written about you weren’t just an echo of my unspoken love but the beginning of something real?
But for now, that’s all it is — a “what if.” A fragile dream I carry with me, close to my chest, where no one else can see. And so, instead of speaking, I write. I write because words feel safer on paper than spoken aloud. I write because I don’t have to face your reaction. I write because it’s the only way I know how to love you without falling apart.
But I also write because a part of me hopes — hopes that one day, you’ll stumble upon these words, even if I never intended you to. That you’ll read between the lines and understand what I could never say out loud. That maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize these words have always been for you, even if my lips never dared to utter them.
And on that day, perhaps I won’t need courage, because you’ll already know. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel the same way too.
