I Always Had A Crush | On Him Ana Rose

I remember the specific gravity of his presence. When he walked into a room, I didn’t gasp. Instead, my shoulders would lower by half an inch, as if a tension I didn’t know I was carrying had finally been released. He was the definition of a safe harbor, and I was a ship that never learned how to dock. We orbited each other in that peculiar space between friendship and something else—a gravitational pull I felt in my ribs every time he laughed at his own jokes or pushed his hair back when he was thinking.

Now, I look back and I am not sad. I am grateful. He taught me the shape of my own heart before I was brave enough to let anyone else hold it. He was never my boyfriend, never my lover, never even my "almost." He was just the boy who taught me how to feel deeply in silence. And for that, I will always carry a piece of him with me—not as a crush, but as a cornerstone. i always had a crush on him ana rose

Of course, it never did. The tragedy is not that he didn’t love me back. The tragedy is that I let the crush become a wall instead of a door. I loved the idea of him so fiercely that I forgot to check if the real, breathing, flawed human in front of me actually fit the portrait I had painted. I remember the specific gravity of his presence