The morning air smelled of wet grass and sunlight, and I found myself walking to the literacy program with a strange mix of anticipation and nerves. Every step made my chest beat faster—not because of the work ahead, but because I knew Samuel would be there. The words he almost said yesterday still hovered between us, fragile and unclaimed, like a fragile thread I didn't know how to hold.
Mirembe ran toward me as soon as I arrived, her energy impossible to ignore.
"This is for you!" she said, holding up her newest drawing. Her eyes shone with excitement.
I bent down to take it, feeling warmth settle in my chest. She notices me. She really sees me. "Thank you, Mirembe. It's beautiful."
Her little smile made me want to laugh, to hold onto this simplicity forever. But even in this tiny, perfect moment, a whisper of fear tugged at me. Comfort could be dangerous. The more I let myself feel it, the more I risked losing it.
Later, under the old mango tree near the library, Samuel was waiting. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his expression unreadable. My stomach tightened. Why does it always feel like he's holding back?
"Hey," I said, sliding onto the bench beside him.
"Hey," he murmured. There was a pause, heavy and deliberate. I could feel the weight of unsaid words hanging between us.
Finally, he sighed. "I… wanted to tell you something yesterday, but I didn't."
My heart beat faster. Here it comes. Maybe he'll say it. Maybe this will change everything.
"It's… nothing important," he added quickly. "I guess I just wanted you to know I notice you. The way you care, the way you push yourself, the way you… see people."
Heat rose to my cheeks. My chest felt tight. I wanted to tell him that I noticed him too—that I had noticed how he lingered just a second too long when he looked at me, the quiet little gestures no one else would see. But I stayed silent. Don't make it awkward. Just… smile.
"Thank you," I whispered, too quiet, too safe.
He laughed softly, and for a moment his eyes met mine. Don't look away. Don't blink. But then he shifted his gaze downward, and the moment dissolved like mist.
"Anyway," he said, standing, "I should probably get back. We'll talk later."
And just like that, the words he almost said—the ones I wanted to hear more than anything—vanished. I stayed on the bench, staring at my hands. Why didn't he stay? Why didn't I ask him to?
That night, alone in my room, I opened my journal. My pen hovered above the page, trembling with the weight of unspoken feelings.
Sometimes the things left unsaid scream the loudest. I wrote slowly, deliberately. I want to ask him everything—but I don't. What if some truths are better kept silent?
I pressed my forehead to the page, letting the quiet pull at me. I couldn't stop thinking about him, about the threads between us that weren't broken—but weren't fully connected either. And somewhere deep down, I knew that silence was already shaping the path between us. Every unspoken word was a fragile thread, delicate, invisible, and ready to tangle.