To love,

They say first love is magic— a spark, a storm, a beginning. But mine? Mine was a silence… dressed in his eyes, burning quietly through my ribs. I held my heart like a sacred thing, never letting it fall, never letting it bruise. Yet all it took was his smile for it to leap— uninvited, unnoticed. How unlucky am I? To give love its first breath only for it to choke in the space between his indifference and my desperation. They say first love hurts. But what of a love that never began? What of the girl who writes poems for a boy who only sees them as wind— passing, soft, forgettable? What of me? Who could’ve given the world in a heartbeat but wasn’t worth even a moment’s truth. He tears up letters from strangers, yet mine— the one with my name, my soul— he leaves it unanswered, as if silence could be kinder than a no. And still… when I see him— my chest forgets how to stay calm, my breath forgets I moved on, my heart— oh, my stupid, lovely heart— chants his name like it’s gospel. This love—my first— wasn't shared, wasn't returned, wasn’t even acknowledged. But it was pure. God, it was pure. And maybe… just maybe… that's what hurts the most.