I Didn’t Mean to Fall in Love Like This

I didn’t mean to fall in love like this—
quiet,
without fireworks,
without warning signs taped to the door.

It happened in the small places.
The way you listened
like my words mattered.
The way your name
felt softer every time I said it.

Love didn’t crash into me.
It sat down beside me.
Asked how my day was.
Stayed.

I loved you in ordinary ways—
coffee gone cold because we were talking,
hands brushing on accident
and not pulling away,
laughing at nothing
just to hear each other breathe.

You didn’t save me.
You didn’t need to.
You just made the world
feel less heavy
when it leaned on my shoulders.

But love is a fragile thing, isn’t it?
It survives storms
but sometimes drowns
in silence.

Now I miss you
in ways that don’t make sense—
I miss the version of me
that existed when you were here.
The one who believed
forever could be casual.

Some nights I still imagine
you thinking of me,
just for a second,
like a song you forgot the words to
but remember the feeling.

If love ever asks me
why I let you go,
I’ll tell it the truth—
because sometimes
loving someone
means carrying them gently
in your chest
instead of your arms.

And if our paths never cross again,
know this:
I loved you honestly.
I loved you quietly.
I loved you
in a way that left fingerprints
on my soul.