I wish she knew how my heart moves every time she walks into the room— how it rises, like it’s trying to meet hers halfway without my permission. I wish she knew that when she laughs, I fall a little harder, the sound landing somewhere deep inside me, in a place I didn’t know could bloom just from the way another girl smiles. Because loving her— or almost loving her, or trying not to love her— feels like standing in a doorway with sunlight on my face and shadows behind me, wondering if she’ll ever reach for my hand. I swear, sometimes she looks at me like she’s memorizing something. My eyes. My voice. My breath. And for a moment, I imagine a version of us that exists outside my head— a version where her gaze means what I hope it means. A version where I don’t have to hide the way my chest tightens when she calls my name. A version where every almost-touch becomes real. Because God— the way I yearn for her is quiet but relentless, gentle but consuming.