Ever since the day you left, I have wondered if you were it for me. When I looked at you, I finally understood what love was. I didn’t need you to tell me you loved me to know that you did. There was a way our eyes communicated that our words could never do justice to. Maybe we were both too afraid of what would happen if we tried to use those words to make sense of everything that was happening between us. Or maybe we both hoped that if we never said how we actually felt, we could continue pretending that what we had was meaningless. We could continue pretending that what we had was just for fun.
With you, love looked like sharing a cup of coffee on a cool evening in April. We always took a bit to get used to each other again, but once that comfort returned, it was like coming home after a long trip away. We shared awkward silences, and sometimes we didn’t know whether to kiss or hug or wave timidly at each other, but you always came back to me. There were words left unsaid, whispered into the darkness of the coffee we shared; maybe we both hoped it would communicate our secrets for us. Maybe we both hoped our pain would get lost in all that darkness.