Maya loved him with everything she had. Too much, maybe. She once thought love was about giving, about waiting, about holding on even when nothing was given back. At first, she asked small things, tiny gestures, a moment of his time. But each request was met with silence or a sigh too heavy for something so light.  

So, she stopped.  

Stopped asking, stopped expecting, stopped hoping. She learned to settle for the quiet presence of a man who never really saw her, never really felt the weight of her love.  One night, beneath the dim glow of her bedside lamp, she picked up a pen and let her heart spill onto the page.  

I asked for a star, but the sky was too vast,  

So I learned to love the dark instead.  

I reached for your hand, but the space was too wide,  

So I held my own and smiled instead.  

I whispered your name in the silence of night,  

But silence, it echoed alone.  

I gave you my heart with hands open wide,  

But love isn't love on one side alone.  

So I’ll love you quiet, love you still,  

Without a plea, without a sound.  

For asking for more is asking for air,  

And I have learned, I must not drown.  

She closed the notebook, tucking away her words like she had tucked away her dreams. And in the stillness of her room, she realized—love, when unreturned, is not love.  

It is longing. It is loneliness. It is letting go.  

And maybe, one day, she would.

-AMS