Luna Wilde

Nobody from my school knew I liked this boy.

Sometimes “I don’t know” is actually

For a person who forgets even the smallest details about herself, it is strange how I remember certain moments so vividly as if I am living them all over again. And as gently as they return, they leave behind a soft, empty ache. The kind that sits heavily and quietly in my heart, holding onto all the things I once held close.

I was waiting for the metro, watching crowd sway like waves around me. I wasn’t thinking of you, not really, until I was. Until I tried to hear you in my head and realised the sound was gone. I tried to remember your voice, how it rose when you were amused, how it carried a certain warmth even in the simplest words. But no matter how hard I tried, the memory wouldn’t come. And standing there among strangers, I realised I’d forgotten the sound that once felt like home.

The love I hold for you has started to feel heavy. What once felt like a warmth has turned into a quiet ache. I wish I could let it go.

As they say, “Some people are part of our history but can not be a part of our destiny.” Maybe that’s true. Maybe we were never meant to be written in the same future. But you were, without question, my favorite part of the past.

How paradoxical it is to be a genius of literature, yet still fail at the simplest act of communication. To weave emotions flawlessly on paper, yet go silent when it’s time to speak them aloud.

I want us to meet again in the autumn, when the world is painted in endings. Because while the leaves fall, the days grow quieter, and everything is learning to let go, I want us to find our way back to each other.

She saw him again, but this time, the person standing before her was not the one she used to love. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by something colder, sharper. Standing before her was not the boy she once dreamed of, but the man she had always feared he would become.

In someone’s mind, you haven’t aged at all. They haven’t seen you in years, and in their memory, you’re still that sixteen year old; the same voice, the same expression, maybe even the same hairstyle. Years may have changed you beyond recognition, but not for them.