Words That Were Never Meant To Be Seen

Letters I’d Never Send to You

This is for the girls who pretend it doesn’t hurt sometimes.

⸻

The Day I Fell

Before the ache, before the unraveling, before I learned how quietly a heart can crack — there was this moment. I didn’t know I’d remember it so vividly. I didn’t know I was falling. But I was. Softly. Silently. In the kind of way you only recognize in hindsight. I met a boy. That’s all it took. And everything after that felt like breath holding its breath.

⸻

Dear Diary, I Met a Boy

June 14, 2029

Dear Diary,

I met a boy.

And for the first time in a long time, it’s not drama. It’s not noise. It’s not chaos.

It’s… peace.

The way he talks about God — it moves me. It humbles me. It makes me reflect on my own love for God, not with shame, but with a yearning to grow deeper. Because it’s rare, Diary. It’s rare to see someone love like that. To carry reverence like breath.

I sent him a voice note once — and it was long, you know me. I yap when I’m comfortable. I told him sorry. He said don’t apologize. That he would listen. That was all. And somehow, in just those few words, I felt so seen. I didn’t need to shrink.

We don’t talk every hour. But when we do, it feels easy. Familiar. Like something I’ve known before, even though I haven’t. I’m not pretending. I’m not performing. I’m not shrinking. I’m just me. And somehow, that’s enough.

I’m doing things I said I wouldn’t do.

Planning gifts. Smiling at my phone.

Staring at his pictures. Rereading our chats.

Giggling. Blushing. Waiting.

There’s a part of me that’s scared. Because I’m the girl who’s supposed to be untouched. Unbothered. Unreachable. I’m the one who stays back, who keeps it cool, who doesn’t fall too hard, too fast. But here I am.

Making a list of things I adore about him.

Choosing pictures for a tiny photo book.

Thinking of bracelets and jerseys and ways to say “I see you” without really saying it.

I caught myself looking at his pictures again today. Smiling at nothing.

God. I like him.

Not in a loud, overwhelming way.

But in a soft, sure, deeply terrifying way.

And the scariest part is… it feels safe.

Love,

Me

🌷

⸻

The Day I Shattered My Own Heart

What they don’t tell you about liking someone is that your heart starts writing its own endings. Silly, foolish, hopeful ones. And even if he doesn’t promise you anything, even if he never misleads you — you still find yourself building small dreams out of his name. So when life answers with a no, it doesn’t just hurt. It echoes.

⸻

✦ Dear Diary: He Has a Girlfriend

(a soft spiral, a quiet survival)

Dear Diary,

He has a girlfriend.

And it stings.

Not because I was promised anything, but because part of me — that ever-hopeful, still-believing part — thought maybe.

Maybe this would be the story that ends differently.

Maybe I’d finally be chosen.

But of course, life whispered a familiar answer.

And I don’t know why I expected more.

I guess I’m just tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of giving my softest parts to the void. Tired of having so much love to give with nowhere to place it.

It’s ironic, isn’t it?

I’m the one who remembers birthdays. Who listens to the in-betweens. Who doesn’t love loudly, but loves truly.

And somehow, I’m always the one left holding the “almost.”

I have never been lucky with guys.

And yet, I keep hoping.

I don’t want my heart to harden.

That’s the real prayer. Not “God, give me love,”

but “God, don’t let love leave me.”

Because even though I’m aching now,

somewhere deep down — deeper than the disappointment — I still believe there’s someone out there.

Someone who doesn’t flinch at soft hearts.

Someone who holds hands like it means something.

Someone who chooses me the first time — not after losing someone else.

But tonight?

Tonight I just want to cry.

Tonight I want to lay this little heartbreak at God’s feet and say:

Only if You leave, I beg.

Only if You stop holding me — then I’ll break.

But as long as You’re here… I’ll survive this one too.

So yeah. He has a girlfriend.

But I still have love.

And one day, it will land in the right hands.

— E.

⸻

The Day I Let Myself Say It

Some people pass through your life so gently, you don’t even notice they’re undoing you until they leave. And even if you never dated, even if nothing ever happened — their absence still aches like a breakup. That’s the part no one prepares you for. That silence has weight.

⸻

✦ Dear Diary: I Wish He Was Mine

(on being seen, not kept)

It hurts. Not going to lie.

But I’ll be fine.

I read something today: “To be loved is to be seen.”

And it hit me — if that’s true, then why can’t I see me?

Why does it feel like no one really does?

Not even the people who were supposed to — not even my parents.

And then there’s U.

He was—he is—something special.

He moves like light, and maybe that’s not just poetry — maybe that’s purpose, because that’s what his name literally means.

Light.

He didn’t just walk into my life; he softened it.

He brought a calmness, a strange quiet, like clarity finally cracked through the noise.

I didn’t know I was missing peace until he entered the room and everything just… stilled.

But maybe he’s not meant to stay.

Maybe he’s one of those people God sends, not to love you romantically, but to remind you that love still exists.

Even if it’s brief. Even if it’s unspoken. Even if it’s not yours to keep.

Maybe he was sent to heal the version of me that needed to be seen, even if only for a moment.

Still, damn.

I wish he was mine.

Even with his crooked teeth and his shy smile.

Even with the way he overuses exclamation marks like he’s always excited to talk to me.

Even with the timing that clearly doesn’t align.

I wish I could keep this feeling.

But oh well.

Some people are not the love story —

They’re the reason you believe love still might be possible.

And that, maybe, is enough.

— E.

⸻

The Day I Lost Myself (Just a Little)

Desire can trick you into shrinking. You don’t even notice it until after — when the thrill dissolves and all you’re left with is regret sitting on your chest. It’s not the picture that haunts you. It’s the feeling that you abandoned yourself again just to be wanted. And you promised you wouldn’t.

⸻

Dear Diary,

I messed up.

I told myself I could do this. I told myself that I could be friends with him. That I’d be chill, composed, unbothered. That we could talk and laugh and vibe without crossing any lines. I told myself I was in control—that I’d never go back to old patterns. That I was done being the version of me that bends just to be liked.

So why did it happen again?

Why are we talking like we’re more than friends? Why am I laughing at flirty comments and responding with ones of my own? Why did I let the conversation take that turn? It wasn’t even subtle. We were being suggestive. Naughty, even. And then—I don’t even know why—I sent a picture. Of my thighs.

In that moment, it didn’t feel like a big deal. It felt cheeky. Fun. But I woke up this morning with this sinking feeling in my chest. Like a heavy reminder that I stepped out of alignment with myself. That wasn’t me. Or at least, not the me I’m trying to become.

I don’t want to live like this anymore. I don’t want to be the kind of girl who has to prove she’s desirable by being flirty or sending pictures. I want to be the kind of woman who’s enough—just as she is. Fully clothed, fully herself, fully present. I want softness. I want to be pursued for my mind, my energy, my essence—not for what I look like in dim lighting or what I might do late at night.

And maybe the hardest part of all this is that deep down… I knew. I felt the shift when the conversation started heading there. I could’ve said, “Hey, let’s not.” I could’ve changed the topic. But I didn’t. And now, here I am. Sitting in the aftermath, trying to make sense of why I let it happen.

I think part of me still wants to feel wanted. Desired. Chosen. And when someone makes me feel like that, even for a moment, it’s hard to say no. But I have to. I have to. Because I know what happens when I don’t. I lose pieces of myself—quietly, slowly, painfully. Until I’m left with this dull ache of regret and the question I hate the most: Why did I do that again?

I don’t want to be anyone’s placeholder. I don’t want to be the girl you pass time with while you wait for your “real” thing. I’m not entertainment. I’m not a moment. I’m not a maybe. I am a whole person. And I want to be loved as one. Not reduced to a body. Not flirted with in the shadows. Not sent home with silence after the thrill wears off.

So this is me being honest with myself. No sugarcoating. No justifying. Just truth. And a promise—to try again. To do better. To honor the girl I’m becoming. The girl who knows she’s more than what she can give, or show, or say to be liked.

I’m not mad at myself. But I am holding myself accountable. Because healing doesn’t mean perfection. It just means being brave enough to notice when you’ve gone off course—and gently guiding yourself back.

Back to softness.

Back to self-worth.

Back to me.

⸻

The Day I Let Go

There’s something so human about wanting to be chosen. Not tolerated. Not admired from afar. But chosen — in the quiet, on the hard days, when no one is watching. I think that’s what I’ve been aching for all along. And maybe I haven’t found it yet. But I’m done breaking my own heart in the meantime.

⸻

To Be Chosen

(Oh, a feeling I would never know)

Some days, I just want to be chosen.

Not pitied. Not pursued for show.

But truly, deeply chosen.

I want to know if it’s possible to be loved like that —

for someone to think of me and feel safe enough to unravel their day,

to want me there in the quiet moments.

Some days I want to know how that feels.

But today isn’t one of those days.

Maybe not tomorrow either.

So for now, I’ll act like I’m fine.

Because when love finds me, I want it to bring peace.

I want it to be soft — gentle.

I want our greatest intimacies to be the way our fingers brush,

or the way his eyes glisten in the sun.

I want love to feel like breath — not a battle.

I just want to be chosen.

Is that too much to ask?

Maybe I’m just… too different.

---

Maybe this was never a love story. Not really. Just a girl trying to make sense of what it meant to feel everything and still be left with nothing.

There were no fireworks. No closure. Just a slow quiet vanishing — the kind of leaving that doesn’t slam the door but leaves it slightly open, so you keep checking, hoping they might come back.

They didn’t.

And now I’m here, reading old letters like they’re someone else’s. Wondering how I ever had the courage to feel that much, to write it all down. To love with that kind of softness. It almost embarrasses me now. But maybe that’s what makes it beautiful — that it was real.

Sometimes I want to delete everything. Erase the parts of me that waited, that longed, that hoped. But I won’t. Because even though I was never chosen, I still showed up. Fully. Foolishly. Tenderly.

And if that isn’t love — I don’t know what is.

This isn’t for him. It never really was. It’s for the version of me who needed to say it out loud, who needed to believe that one day she’d look back and be proud of how much she felt — even if it never came back to her.

So, no. This isn’t a love story.

It’s a soft goodbye.

---

I’ve been told that my writing is too intense — if that makes sense.

So, I hope you enjoyed this fictitious piece about unrequited love.

💌✨

~Emma🦋