Things I'll never admit

I’ll never admit I noticed you first,

that your laughter—loud and wild—

was my favorite sound,

though I always called it annoying.

I won’t say how much I loved our talks,

our walks,

our moments of awkward silence…

What? I’m not weird.

I know you liked them too.

They were pretty funny, actually.

I’ll never admit I let you win that chess game,

watched you light up with victory,

pretended to be annoyed

just to hear you gloat.

And how happy it made me

to see you smile so wide.

I won’t confess how much I valued our friendship,

how you were like a sister to me,

someone I thought would always be there,

woven into my life like a thread

that could never unravel.

But threads wear thin, don’t they?

And words—once soft, once safe—

became sharp enough to cut.

I won’t say I still replay the last thing you said,

or how silence feels different now,

less like comfort, more like loss.

I won’t admit I check for your name,

half-expecting, half-hoping

for a message that never comes.

And I’ll never say that I still miss you,

even when I tell myself I don’t.

But maybe, just maybe,

you’ve done these things too.

And maybe, just maybe,

we’re both pretending we don’t.