"Sometimes the most beautiful songs are the ones no one ever hears."

⸻

I used to think love would come to me on a rainy afternoon.
When music leaked from my headphones like light hitting water.
When their fingers would brush against mine over the same piano key.
I used to think... it would be beautiful.
Like the songs you wrote.
Like the way you looked at the one you loved — with your whole forehead, your whole heart, and the full madness of a first crush.

But my love had no overture.
It only began...
with a song you wrote for someone else.

I first heard your demo on a morning I can't remember if it rained or shone.
You were slouched in a leather chair, hair a mess, guitar in hand, voice rough from crying the night before.
I stood behind the glass, headphones on,
fists clenched white.

No one said the song was about me.
And they were right —
you never said it.

Still, I brought every lyric home.
Each time you whispered the word love, like a quiet cough in your chest.
I kept it.
Not because I believed I was the main character.
But because I couldn't survive without believing
that maybe...
somewhere in you,
a piece of me existed.

⸻

Someone once asked me,

"Why don't you tell him?"

I laughed.
The way someone standing beneath fireworks laughs —
knowing none of the sparks were for them.

"I'm afraid I'd become the worst song he's ever written."

⸻

I know I'll die of this love.
In a terribly romantic way:
I'll cough up purple carnations every time he releases a new album.

And when he writes his final song —
the one that closes his radiant journey —
I won't be in the audience anymore.

I'll be resting inside my own chest.
With petals of purple –
meant for no one.

⸻