I once stood close to her light,
close enough to feel something real —
but fear tied my tongue.
Too unsure to say it,
too tangled in timing,
too afraid of how it might sound.
So, silence became my choice.
It wasn’t that she lacked beauty.
No — she was beauty’s quiet kind,
the kind that doesn’t shout for attention,
too gentle, too patient, too true —
steady, sure, and rare.
I turned away,
chose another who reminded me of her,
but was never her.
Not because the she wasn’t enough,
but because I didn’t know how to reach her.
And in choosing,
I lost something sacred.
Though my choice hurt her,
it wasn’t cruelty —
just a heart too bound by what felt right.
Still, she stayed.
She stayed when she had every reason not to.
Not to claim me,
not to compete,
but to love without taking,
to care even for the one I chose instead —
never crossing a line.
Grace in human form —
she carried it like a second skin.
And though my heart knew her name,
I buried it beneath what I thought was honour.
Time passed.
Love failed.
But she remained —
quiet, kind, unbroken.
As if loving me silently
was proof enough of her strength.
Now, after all the time,
after all the lessons,
I see her worth more clearly than ever.
The best things in life aren’t rushed;
they ripen in silence —
like trust,
like truth,
like love that waits its turn to speak.
If she ever wonders why I never told her,
let her know this:
my delay wasn’t doubt.
My silence was never indifference.
My waiting was never weakness.
It was reverence —
for something too priceless to mishandle.
I chose to bear the ache of absence
rather than rush in and make her feel
like my second choice —
something she never was,
and never will be.
Because something as rare as her
deserved time —
and the man I am becoming.
This love —
it didn’t start now.
It grew.
It waited.
And now,
it’s ready to stay.
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