There’s a quiet
that isn’t empty.
It hums.
Not loud enough to scream,
not soft enough to ignore.
It lives under the ribs
like a question
that won’t sit down.
I don’t need fireworks.
I don’t need forever
whispered in the dark.
I just need to know
I’m not the only one
building the bridge.
Because I can feel the almost.
I can feel the weight of maybe.
The space between
“we’re okay”
and “we’ll see.”
And that space has teeth.
It doesn’t slam doors.
It leaves them cracked.
It doesn’t say goodbye.
It says,
“Let’s not name this yet.”
I don’t want to chase you.
I don’t want to cage you.
I don’t want to turn love
into pressure.
But silence echoes.
And there’s a kind of fear
that doesn’t shout.
It erodes.
Not losing you in one moment—
but losing you
inch by inch
to uncertainty.
I don’t need certainty tonight.
I need intention.
Not possession.
Not promises.
Not control.
Just a step forward
without being pulled.
Just a voice in the quiet
that says,
“I’m choosing this too.”
Because loving you
isn’t the hard part.
Standing in the in-between
and not knowing
if I’m alone there—
That’s the war.
And I don’t want to fight.
I want to build.
