I’m not good with people. Or feelings. Or talking about them, at least. 

I write better than I speak, and somehow, everything I want to say ends up in metaphors on paper. 

They say I’m cold, distant—even detached. Maybe I am. But if you looked close enough, you’d see the truth hiding in every poem. 

The pauses in my breath when you laugh. The poems I never show you. 

You’re the plot I never planned to write, the story that rewrote me. 

And maybe that’s enough. Even if you never find out.