Everything I never Said

Almost mine

That night, I lay on my bed with my journal open beside me.

My room was quiet except for the low hum of the fan and the occasional sound of a car passing outside.

I stared at the blank page for a long time before picking up my pen.

Dear Diary,

I think I'm getting into trouble.

Not the kind of trouble that gets you into arguments with your parents or makes your teachers call you into their offices. The quiet kind. The kind nobody sees happening until you're already too deep into it.

His name is Sam.

I wish I could write that without smiling like an i***t, but apparently, I have lost every ounce of dignity I once possessed.

He asked me why I was pretending not to care.

I wanted to ask him how he noticed.

Nobody ever notices.

Or maybe people notice and simply don't care enough to ask. I don't know which possibility hurts more.

He told me I could talk to him.

I wonder if he understands what that means to someone like me.

Talking isn't difficult because I don't have anything to say. It's difficult because, once I say something, I can't take it back. People can remember your words. They can misunderstand them, repeat them, or use them to hurt you.

Silence is safer.

At least, that's what I've always believed.

But today, when Sam looked at me, I wanted to tell him things I had never told anyone.

I wanted to tell him that sometimes I feel lonely even when I'm surrounded by my family.

I love my parents, but there are moments when I wish they would look at me and see more than the quiet daughter who never causes trouble.

That I want someone to ask me how I feel and actually wait for the answer.

That I want to be loved without having to become a different person to deserve it.

I wanted to tell him all those things.

Instead, I told him he was becoming too serious.

I stopped writing.

My throat felt strangely tight.

After a moment, I continued.

I don't know what Sam wants from me.

Sometimes I think he likes me. Other times, I think I'm simply another person he enjoys talking to.

And maybe that's all this is.

Maybe I'm taking ordinary kindness and turning it into something extraordinary because I'm not used to receiving it.

I don't want to make that mistake.

I don't want to fall for someone who has never promised to catch me.

But I think I already have.

I put the pen down.

Then, almost as an afterthought, I picked it up again.

There's one more thing.

When he told me I could talk to him, I believed him.

And that scares me more than anything else.

I closed the journal and slid it beneath my pillow.

Then I picked up my phone.

There was a message from Sam.

Sam: You home?

I smiled.

Me: No, I'm currently living on the moon.

His reply came almost immediately.

Sam: That explains why your head is always in the clouds.

I laughed quietly.

Me: You're so annoying.

Sam: And yet you keep replying.

I stared at the message.

He wasn't wrong.

Me: Maybe I'm just bored.

Sam: Sure, Isabelle.

I could practically hear the amusement in his voice.

Then another message appeared.

Sam: Goodnight, trouble.

I read it once.

Twice.

Three times.

It was such a simple thing to say.

Goodnight.

A nickname.

Nothing serious.

Nothing that meant he was in love with me.

Nothing that gave me permission to start imagining a future that didn't exist.

Still, I typed my reply with a smile I couldn't explain.

Me: Goodnight, Sam.

I put my phone down and turned off the bedside lamp.

For the first time in a long while, I fell asleep thinking about someone who had made me feel as though being understood might not be impossible.

I didn't know that, months later, I would remember this exact feeling.

I didn't know that the same boy who made me believe I could speak would eventually become the person I struggled to find words for.

I didn't know that there would be unanswered messages, difficult conversations, distance, and a goodbye. Neither of us would know how to handle it.

I didn't know that one day, I would sit in a university dormitory with another boy's name on my phone and Sam's name in the back of my mind.

All I knew was that I liked him.

And for someone who had spent years keeping her heart behind locked doors, liking someone was already a dangerous beginning.

Some people break your heart without ever promising to hold it. They simply make you feel like it belongs to them, then act surprised when you get hurt.

The first rule of having feelings for someone who isn't yours is to never act like you have a right to be upset.

You have no right to question why they took so long to reply. No right to wonder who they were talking to when they suddenly became unavailable. No right to feel some type of way when they laugh a little too hard at another person's jokes or call someone else by a nickname they once used for you.

You have no right to anything.

Because, technically, you're nothing.

Just two people who talk.

Two people who laugh at the same stupid things.

Two people who sometimes stay awake longer than they should because neither of them wants the conversation to end.

Two people who might mean something to each other, but have never been brave enough to find out what that something is.

And if you're unlucky enough to be the girl in that situation, you will spend your nights convincing yourself that you're not in love while secretly imagining what it would feel like to be chosen.

I knew all these things.

I understood them perfectly.

Unfortunately, understanding something and knowing how to protect yourself from it are two entirely different things.

Especially when the person involved is Sam.

"Isabelle, are you coming or not?"

I looked up from my phone.

Tasha stood by the classroom door, her schoolbag hanging from one shoulder and an impatient expression on her face.

"Coming where?"

She stared at me.

"Have you been listening to anything I've said this morning?"

"Some of it."

"Which part?"

"The part where you were talking."

She rolled her eyes.

"You're actually a problem."

I laughed and shoved my phone into my bag.

"Where are we going?"

"To the canteen. Sam and the others are waiting."

I tried not to react to his name.

I really did.

But Tasha's eyes narrowed.

"Don't start."

"Start what?"

"Whatever you're doing with your face."

"This is my face, Tasha."

"Then tell your face to behave."

I grabbed my bag and followed her out of the classroom.

The truth was that I had been looking at my phone because Sam hadn't replied to my message from the previous night.

It wasn't an important message.

At least, that's what I had told myself when I sent it.

He had asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was trying to finish an assignment. He had replied that I was becoming too serious about school, and I had told him that some of us actually wanted to graduate.

He sent a laughing emoji.

I asked what was funny.

He said nothing.

I told him he was annoying.

He said he knew.

Then I sent him one final message.

Goodnight, nuisance.

He didn't reply.

It was such a small thing that I felt embarrassed for even remembering it.

But I remembered.

I remembered that he had been online afterward. I remembered seeing his status change. I remembered telling myself that he was probably talking to someone else and that it didn't matter.

I remembered putting my phone down, picking it up again, and finally turning it face down because I was beginning to annoy myself.

And now I was going to see him.

Wonderful.

Absolutely wonderful.

"You're quiet," Tasha observed as we walked down the corridor.

"I'm always quiet."

"Not like this."

"Maybe I'm tired."

She hummed.

"Or maybe someone didn't reply to your message."

I stopped walking.

She stopped too.

Slowly, she turned towards me.

"Oh my God."

"Tasha, don't."

"He didn't reply?"

"It was nothing."

"What did you send him?"

"Nothing important."

"Let me see."

"No."

"Isabelle!"

"Tasha!"

She laughed so loudly that two students passing us turned to look.