It never really shows itself all at once, but my chest always knows when she’s near. Not because I try to feel it, but because something inside me tightens, like it’s holding onto words that were never meant to stay this long. I don’t notice when it starts, only that somehow, in the middle of everything, I feel it again, the weight of everything I never said. I don’t plan to stay silent. In my head, the words come easily, like they’ve been waiting for the right moment. But when she’s there, something in me hesitates. Not loud, not obvious, just enough to stop everything from leaving my chest. And instead of speaking, I stay quiet, like silence is safer than the truth. The feeling doesn’t fade. It stays, steady and constant, turning every almost into something I carry. It doesn’t break me all at once, just slowly, until my chest feels heavier than it should. Sometimes I wonder if saying it would hurt less, or if it would only make things worse. Because telling her means losing the comfort of not knowing. And somehow, that fear feels easier to hold than the risk of being real. And maybe that’s what makes it so heavy, knowing exactly what I feel, but still not being brave enough to say it.