Season 1, Episode 3 of "Before She Knew My Heart"
I tried.
God knows how many times I tried.
At traffic signals.While brushing my teeth.While staring at her name in my phone at 2:14 a.m., fingers trembling over the keyboard, hoping the right words would magically appear.
But they never did.
Every time I wanted to say it… something stopped me.Her laughter.Our friendship.The quiet fear that I might lose the only person I never wanted to live without.
I remember one afternoon in school — it was pouring outside. The kind of rain that painted the entire world grey, but she walked in wearing yellow. Bright. Loud. Smiling.
I was reading by the window. She barged into the class, dropped her wet bag beside me, and without asking, placed her damp palm on my cheek.
"You're always so warm," she said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.
My heart stopped.
Right there — I wanted to say it.
"I love you, Ayla."
But what I whispered instead was, "You'll catch a cold."
Because that was safer. That didn't risk everything.
You see, silence is easier.
It doesn't demand courage.It doesn't risk pain.It lets you love someone fully — in your own little invisible way — without ever asking for anything back.
So I learned to love her from the sidelines.
I'd wait for her at the tuition center, pretending I just happened to pass by.I'd save the blue gems in Candy Crush because she said they looked "pretty."I'd lie to my friends, ditch plans, just to walk her home on late evenings.
She never asked for it.
But I gave it anyway — every bit of myself.
I remember once, during our final year of school, she sat beside me on the bench near the playground. She looked... off. Quiet.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She didn't speak for a minute. Then whispered, "Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to find someone who really sees me. Not just likes me… but sees me."
My throat tightened.
I saw her. Every single day. In every version of herself — happy, messy, angry, crying, anxious, dancing like no one was watching, overthinking exam results, talking too fast about Grey's Anatomy, falling asleep during horror movies, and waking up to say, "Wasn't scary."
I wanted to scream,
"I see you. I've always seen you."
But all I said was, "You will."
It's funny, isn't it?
The way people write books (like my author, Saathwik), make movies, sing songs about love — but never teach us how to say it when it matters most.
They don't teach you what to do when your heart's been writing love letters for years but your lips still tremble at the thought of saying her name with a different weight.
They don't tell you what it feels like to sit inches away from the girl you love and know... she doesn't even know.
I wrote it once.
On paper.
Folded it into the shape of a crane because she loved origami.
Kept it in my pocket all day.
But when she walked up to me that evening, eyes sparkling— I crumpled it behind my back and smiled.
She never saw the letter.
She never knew the storm behind my quiet nod.
Some nights, I'd stare at her online status — "Typing..."My heart would skip.Then it would disappear.
No message.
She was probably texting someone else.
And I? I'd just reread the unsent paragraph I wrote for her:
"You're in everything I do, Ayla. In every decision, every song, every breath. And I don't know how to not love you anymore."
Backspace.
Delete.
Gone.
People ask, "Why didn't you ever tell her?"
Because I was afraid she'd stop laughing the same way.Afraid she'd see me differently.Afraid I'd ruin the one thing I treasured the most — us.
So I stayed silent.
And loved her in all the ways she never saw.
One day, maybe she'll know.
Maybe she'll read this.Maybe she'll remember the late-night calls, the extra fries I gave her, the way I always showed up.
Maybe she'll realize what I couldn't say out loud:
That I didn't fall in love with her one day.I grew into it.
And I stayed there — quietly, completely — loving her like breath itself.