I always thought love came crashing in—

like waves or thunder or a monsoon of realization.

But with you,

it was quiet.

It was the way you remembered how I take my coffee.

The way your name was the first I wanted to text when something good—or terrible—happened.

The way silence never felt awkward between us,

only full.

I noticed it when your hand brushed mine and I didn’t flinch.

When your hoodie smelled like home.

When someone asked me if I was seeing anyone

and your name got caught in my throat.

I loved you in the way people don’t write stories about.

Slow, steady, accidentally.

But now that I know—

I can’t un-know it.

So I sit across from you like I always do,

laugh at your dumb jokes like I always do,

and wonder if you’ll ever see

what I now read so clearly

between the lines.