What if tomorrow comes and I am not ready? Not rehearsed, my heart still mid-sentence. Still, my voice backwards? Suppose I wake up and he's there. It’s a cool, clear morning. And all the words I wanted to say dissolve before I'm close?
There are three small words I carry; they weigh the entire world.
I've practised them in mirrors, in silence, in the fire of 3 a.m.
When no one sleeps, night becomes a mirror too.
I have three words. I have three words.
They carry the whole world.
I have practised them in silence, in mirrors, in the heat of 3 a.m.
When nobody sleeps, and night is a mirror too. I love you. I love you. I love you. Impossible to say to you. What is this fear that holds me here? It has a form, a name, and a voice that whispers slowly, "What if he doesn't feel that way?"
It is the ghost of every heart that loved and went wrong.
The shadow of the door that shut when someone could not stay.
It is the ghost of every heart that loves and loses its way.
The shadow of the door that shut when someone couldn't stay.
I dare not hope too much. I fear the open air. I'm afraid to love someone who doesn't know I'm here. Of making castles out of glances, of reading as a sign of warmth, of watering softly a garden that was never really mine.
What if he looks at me the way glass looks through and away? What if the crowd is a wall? And me, the one who stays behind, red-cheeked, hollow-chested, swallowing the sting of not being loved, loudly, in the face of it all?
Shame it is a strange weight, how it clings like morning frost! Not only the pain of being turned, but also the sense of being lost in one's self, as if the self that dared to want and reach was a fool all the time for thinking she was worth saying.
But honey, is it really? Is it wrong to want someone? Isn't a heart that loves too honestly hard too? And yet here is the other fear, the one that bites more deeply:
What if tomorrow he is gone, and you,
still half asleep, wake up to find a space
Where he once stood and filled the room, and all you have are
Unspoken words still blooming in the gloom?
They say that silence is the safest; there's no wound if nothing's said.
But silence has its own slow bruise, its own particular dread.
the kind that comes at forty, fifty, grey at the temples now,
remembering a winter morning and a boy you didn't allow.
That grief is not dramatic. It makes no scene, no sound.
It is the quietest kind of loss, the "what-if" underground.
the road you never travelled, grown over, green, and gone,
The song you hummed but never sang still asks, "What went wrong?"
So here is what I've learned from love and all its thorns and grace:
The risk is not in speaking out; it's in the unsaid space.
The risk is not in being turned away; that wound will heal.
The wound that doesn't close with time is what you chose not to feel.
You ask, will I survive the shame if he does not love me back?
Yes, you will gather every piece of what his silence cracked.
You've survived the cold before;
You've learned to bear the rain.
And a love unreturned, believe me.
It is not the end of pain but the beginning of knowing how deeply you can feel.
How wide was your heart willing to love before the deal?
So tell him. Let the words come out, imperfect, raw, and real.
Not because he'll say them back, not just for what you'll feel,
But because you, dear,
You deserve to live without the weight of a love you kept too carefully inside you, growing late.
What if tomorrow he is gone and takes your silence too?
What if the hardest thing you'll face is never him but you?
The you who knew, who always knew but chose the safer ground,
who loved so loudly in her chest and made so little sound.
What if tomorrow comes? Let it come and let it find you brave enough to have begun.
The shame of not being loved fades. The pain of never trying to stay.
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