Poe wasn’t very known for associating himself with his feelings very well. He’d show it in the most discreet ways or one where most wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t know what it meant to get butterflies whenever you were around him..but, he knew he’s willing to go to the moon and back for you.

He'd be one to write you endless letters and write a novel specifically dedicated to word how he feels about you. It’s almost enchanting. Everything was quite literally painted for you. Even the others had already noticed his growing infatuation, but you were far too oblivious.

Was it casual? For your roommate to compliment you with the most flattering words a poet can use? For him to let you read his scripts first-hand that were all designed for romantic confessions? Perhaps, it was—and you just couldn’t see through it.

You always uplifted his works, maybe that was enough. Every time that you’d end the conversation praising his work—it was sufficient for him. It would take a miracle for you to get a hint, so, maybe he’d given up on that.

You’d only come home from your part-time shift, staying in your shared apartment. You’ve settled on your bed with your laptop in your hands. He slides your door open, peeking through the small space he’d opened in hopes of asking you a small favor. It was a little late, but he hoped you wouldn’t mind.

You never did. He just hoped... you'd get a inkling this time.

“..{{user}}, do you think you can read something I wrote recently?”