Loving in Silence

I never believed in love at first sight — not until the first day of college, when she walked into the lecture hall and my entire world shifted. She wasn't doing anything extraordinary. She was just looking for a seat, textbooks pressed against her chest, hair slightly messy from the morning rush. But something about her made my heart stop mid-beat. I didn't know her name yet. I didn't know her voice. I just knew, in that quiet, unexplainable way, that she was going to matter to me. I was right. I just didn't know how much it was going to cost me. Her name was Simi. We became friends the way most college friendships begin — sitting close in class, sharing notes, laughing over terrible cafeteria food. She was warm, funny, and effortlessly kind. The kind of person who remembered small details about everyone. The kind of person who made you feel seen without even trying. And I fell. Slowly at first, then completely. By the second semester, Simi and I were inseparable. We had our own corner in the library — third row, window seat, where the afternoon light came in just right. We had inside jokes nobody else understood. We had a playlist we built together, one song at a time, each one carrying a memory attached to it. She would call me when she was lost — not just physically, but emotionally. When her parents fought over the phone and she didn't know how to feel. When a lecturer humiliated her in front of the class and she held her tears until she was outside. She always called me. And I always answered. I told myself that meant something. Maybe it did. Just not the something I was hoping for. There were moments that felt dangerously close to what I imagined love should feel like. Late nights studying where our hands accidentally touched over the same textbook and neither of us pulled away immediately. Movie nights where she fell asleep on my shoulder and I stayed perfectly still, afraid to wake her, afraid to lose that moment. I lived for those moments. I survived on them. Looking back now, I understand that she was simply comfortable with me. That she trusted me. That I was safe to her. And while those are beautiful things, they are not the same as love. I know that now. But back then, hope has a way of translating everything in its favor. For four years, I loved her in silence. I was there when she cried over failing her exams. I was there when she celebrated her wins. I stayed up late on phone calls that meant everything to me and probably felt ordinary to her. I memorized the way she laughed, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, the way she said my name like it was just another word — not knowing it sounded like music every single time. I told myself to be patient. I told myself friendship was enough. I told myself that one day she would look at me and finally see me — not just as a friend, but as someone worth loving. I held on to that hope like it was oxygen. Every small moment felt like a sign. When she chose to sit beside me in a crowded room. When she texted me first. When she laughed at my jokes a little too long. I collected those moments like they were evidence of something — proof that maybe, just maybe, she felt it too. She didn't. There were so many nights I almost told Simi everything. One in particular stays with me. It was a rainy Thursday evening in our second year. The power had gone out across campus and we sat in her room with a single candle between us, talking about everything and nothing. Life. Dreams. Fear. The future. At some point she turned to me and said, "I'm really glad you're in my life. I don't know what I'd do without you." My heart was so full it hurt. I opened my mouth. The words were right there — I love you, Simi. I have loved you since the very first day. I could feel them sitting on the tip of my tongue, ready. But I swallowed them back down. I told myself the timing wasn't right. I told myself I needed to be sure. I told myself I couldn't risk losing her friendship. The truth? I was afraid. Plain and simple. I was terrified that the moment I said those words out loud, everything would change — and not in the way I was hoping. So I smiled, and I said, "I'm glad too." And we sat there in the candlelight, close enough to touch, miles apart in ways she didn't know. In my third year, I met someone. Her name was Lara. She was in my Economics class — sharp, confident, and completely different from Simi in every way. Where Simi was soft and gentle, Lara was bold and direct. She told me on our third conversation that she found me interesting. Just like that. No games, no hints — just honesty. It was refreshing. And terrifying. We spent a few months getting to know each other. She made me laugh. She challenged me intellectually. She was genuinely good for me in ways I could recognize even then. But every time I was with Lara, some part of my mind drifted back to Simi. Every smile I gave Lara felt borrowed. Every moment we shared felt like I was trying to replace something I hadn't even lost yet — because you cannot lose what was never yours. I ended things with Lara before they truly began. It wasn't fair to her. She deserved someone whose whole heart was present. Mine was still somewhere else, still stubbornly loyal to a love that didn't know it existed. I regret that. Lara deserved better. And if she ever reads this — I'm sorry.