hands trembling with secrets she could not share,
hating herself in mirrors that whispered lies,
and dragging her weary heart through empty streets.
Love, she believed, was a ghost in a locked room,
a language she could never learn to speak.
And then he entered—
not like the sun bursting through clouds,
but like a quiet flicker of light
that made the dark less terrifying.
It was not thunder or fire,
just the smallest spark—
a shimmer in her heart,
her mind,
her eyes.The moment she saw him,
the world unraveled its silence.
It wasn’t love, not yet—
it was hope,
fragile as the wings of a moth
that dared to dance too close to a flame.
She didn’t dream of being adored,
didn’t wish to own his gaze or heart.
Her thoughts were soft whispers—
“I just want to exist in his world,
to be there when he needs,
to watch him from the edges of his storms
and pray he never feels alone.”She began to speak to him,
her words unsteady,
her heart a wild drumbeat in her chest.
He didn’t know the weight of those moments,
how they painted her gray skies
with impossible colors.
Every laugh they shared felt like honey,
slow and sweet,
healing the broken edges of her soul.
She didn’t want anything in return—
no confessions, no promises,
no grand gestures of affection.
Her love for him was the kind that blooms in silence,
delicate as the first frost
on an autumn morning.Her heart was full of him,
an unspoken prayer,
a gentle ache.
She wrote his name in the margins of her mind, margins of her blood, margins of her heart.
a quiet symphony of longing
that asked for nothing
but the privilege of being near.
Yet, the pain crept in,
a shadow stitched into her light.
How sweet, she thought,
to carry a love so vast and quiet,
to see him smile at a world
that did not know her name
as the reason behind her trembling joy. She didn’t mind the ache at first.
It was proof that she was alive,
proof that her heart,
though battered and bruised,
was still capable of feeling.
But as the days turned to weeks,
the spark in her chest grew steady.
Her love, once delicate and uncertain,
became a quiet symphony of joy,
a song that played in every glance,
every fleeting touch.
And then one day, he turned to her—
not with a passing smile,
but with eyes that carried the weight of a thousand unsaid words.
He saw her in ways she had never seen herself,
every scar, every shadow,
and called her beautiful without speaking a word.
She was no longer just a girl carved from shadows;
she was light, endless and untamed.
His love met hers like rivers colliding,
like stars bursting to life in a quiet sky.
Together, they were more than she had ever dreamed—
more than just a spark;
they were the fire that made her whole.
