A Name I Never Said Aloud | Eldrex Delos Reyes Bula

I met you in a room of wooden chairs, the air smelling of chalk and morning rain. You were just a voice that knew my name, and I was just a student learning pain.

I didn't know the quiet weight I carried was love—it wore the mask of simple friendship. It folded notes I never dared to hand you, it sat beside me on the long bus trip.

Seven years of not saying the sentence. Seven winters of keeping warm alone. I learned to love you like a language spoken only in a country not my own.

At home, the walls had ears and heavy rules. The dinner table served no space for this. So I became two people: one who feels, and one who hides his feelings in a fist.

They told me what a man is supposed to want. I pressed your shadow into books at night. I never touched your hand. I only watched it move through sunlight like a quiet kite.

I don't want to let you go, but holding on means holding air. You are the door I stand before and never knock—but still stand there.

And if you ever read this, you won't know it's you. That's how well I've kept you hid. But somewhere in a school hallway, years ago, a boy learned love—and didn't know he did.