What do you call a love that never began?

To never catch fire, and yet burn.

God, I wanted him.

Not the version of him the world saw. Not the polished, distant thing wrapped in good intentions. No, I wanted the boy behind the silences. The one who looked at me like he was starving, but never took a bite. The one who tapped his foot when he was nervous, who looked away when he laughed too hard. The one whose voice dropped an octave when he said my name. The one who held my gaze like it meant something, only to let it go like it didn’t.

He never touched me. But everything he did felt like touching. Every laugh that lingered too long, every sideways glance, every time he said my name like it was his favorite flavor. I lived for those moments. I fed off them—like oxygen. I’d replay his voice in my head at night, stringing together our conversations like pearls—delicate, dangerous, precious. He made me feel like the world slowed down when he looked at me. And maybe it did. Or maybe I just wanted it to.

I could never sit still around him. Not really. My skin would buzz like it was waiting for something—his hand, his words, his decision. Every time he texted me, my chest lit up like a fuse had been set off. I would hover over the screen like his words might scorch me. And they did, sometimes. In the way he said “my girl,” it was like it didn’t mean anything. In the way he said “take care,” it was like he wasn’t the thing I needed protection from.

You say you're no good. But you were so good for me.

Do you know what it’s like to want someone who’s always almost there? Someone who lets you drown slowly, maybe? Someone who gives just enough to keep you alive but never enough to fill you?

I burned for him. Quietly. Violently.

I wanted to tell him—I wanted to grab his face and make him see me. Not the version I showed the world, not the careful, clever girl I packaged myself into. But the one who ached at the sound of his name. The one who watched his hands and wondered what it might feel like if he just reached back. I wanted to press myself against the edge of him and see if he would finally fall in.

But I didn’t. Because I don’t ask. I hint. I linger. I leave doors cracked, never flung open. I beg without speaking. And he heard me. I know he did.

He just never walked through.

And that’s the part that ruins me.

Because he wasn’t oblivious. He was careful. Too careful. He was soft and sweet and sacred in the ways that hurt the most. And it would’ve been easier if he had rejected me outright. If he had laughed or pulled away or said “no.” But instead, he kept me there. Right there. In his orbit. In that sacred middle place between nothing and everything.

He never held me, but somehow, I still felt him everywhere. Every game we played, every stupid inside joke, every time he called me after class—I could feel him getting under my skin. We never even took a picture together. Two years, and nothing to show for it but memory and madness. No proof, except the ache.

And maybe I loved him.
No. I did.
I loved him in a way I can’t even explain to myself. In a way that felt ancient and primal and holy all at once. I loved him like worship. Like he was the altar, and I kept offering pieces of myself just to be near his fire.

And he never asked for them.
That’s what made it worse.

I would’ve given him everything.
My time. My secrets. My heart. My name.

I would’ve let him ruin me and called it a blessing.
I would’ve let him write his name in my silence, and I’d carry it like a vow.

But he didn’t ask.
And I didn’t say.
And that ended it.

Not heartbreak.
Not tragedy.
Just a girl who burned quietly while the boy she wanted watched her glow and said, “You’re beautiful,” but never stepped into the fire.

Nothing aches like almost