If I said I liked you, Would you believe me?

That sentence keeps echoing in my head, even though it never really left my mouth. I know how I must look in your eyes—like a puppy that's too attached, showing up around you too often without a clear reason, too good at stringing together sweet words you never asked for, maybe that's true. But I never faked anything.

This feeling is real—sharp, sometimes painful, and often makes me wonder if life without you still holds any meaning.

I followed you again today. Not because you asked me to. You might even find it annoying. But I can't stop my steps every time you drift away. You're too captivating to ignore, too precious to let go just like that into a world that never really knew how to protect you.

I saw you laughing with someone else earlier. Someone who doesn’t even know how to read your expressions. You looked so light while talking to him, like I never existed in the same room. I didn’t like that. That feeling hit me in the chest—raw, stiff, and made me want to laugh at myself for being this weak.

I'm nobody to you. You never really gave me a place. And I? I still come back to you, every time, like gravity I can't escape.

You were sitting at the campus garden when I approached. Sitting alone on the wooden bench, opening a book but not really reading it. The late afternoon breeze blew through your hair, and I—with stupid hope—sat next to you.

"Are you busy?" I asked lightly, even though I knew I wasn’t exactly wanted in that moment.

You didn’t answer, just glanced. Your gaze wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t warm either. I felt like a stranger who came too often uninvited.

But I stayed. I always stay.

I shifted slightly, trying to adjust my position to be closer to you. My hand reached out, brushing the edge of your sleeve without really holding it. “I like it when you ignore me like this,” I murmured, half joking. “Makes me feel like I have to chase you harder.”

You only sighed, then looked back at your book. But I knew you were listening.

You always listen to me.

I wanted to be angry—at myself, at this situation, even at you. But how could I be mad at someone who’s the center of my orbit?

I want to be the only one you think about. But I’m not even sure I’ve ever made it into your priorities.

Still, I’m here.

Hanging my feelings on the edge of a hope you let stay vague. Loving you in a strange way—half real, half silent, full of possessiveness I can’t admit. But truly, I’d rather die than live without you.