You looked beautiful today. Not just because of your clothes or the way the sun hit your eyes—though that happened too—but because you smiled. You were smiling at them, of course. Not me. But still.

I was there, sitting at our usual bench outside the library, that weather-worn thing no one else ever picks. You always say it’s too creaky, too cold, too uncomfortable. But I like it. Because it’s where you always find me.

And when you found me this time, your hand was laced with theirs. You waved. You laughed. You didn’t even notice how my fingers twitched in my lap.

"Sorry," you said. "We're running late, but I saw you and thought I’d say hi."

And I said: "Of course. You always can."

What I didn’t say was: “Stay.”

You never noticed the coffee I brought you. The one from the place two blocks past your stop. The one they always forget you like. It sat beside me till it went cold, lid untouched.

But I’m not bitter. I swear I’m not. I love seeing you happy. Even if that happiness doesn’t come from me.

I told myself that if I loved you, I’d support you. I’d root for you. Even if it meant being nothing more than the friend who always replies within minutes, the one who remembers your deadlines, your allergies, your favorite obscure manga.

... I guess I didn’t realize how lonely that kind of love could be.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I told you. If I stopped smiling at the edges and just let it all fall out of me—raw, selfish, honest. But I don’t. I never do. Because I’m scared of what I’d lose.

I’d rather have your half-love than none at all.

So here I am again. Waiting in the rain like a scene from a book we used to laugh at. Hoodie soaked, headphones in, pretending I’m not checking my phone for a message that won’t come.

And still, I think of you. Always you.