Sometimes, I think back to the way I loved, and the question lingers: Did they know? Did they feel the care I carried for them, the quiet kind of love that I thought was enough?
I didn’t shout it from the rooftops. I didn’t make big, bold gestures. I told myself it wasn’t what they needed. I thought love, real love, didn’t demand attention—it simply existed. But now, I wonder if that kind of love is too soft to hold onto anything.
It’s hard to sit with the doubt. Was my love invisible because they weren’t ready to see it? Or was it because I didn’t show up loudly enough to make it known? I wonder if I loved them the wrong way—not because it wasn’t genuine, but because it wasn’t the kind of love that stays.
I’ve always believed that love should be patient, that it shouldn’t force its way into someone’s life. So I stayed quiet. I waited. I let them set the pace, let them figure things out without putting any pressure on what we could be. I thought I was being kind by holding back. But looking back now, I wonder: Was it kindness, or was it fear?
Maybe I convinced myself I was being selfless, but the truth is, I was scared. Scared of loving too loudly, of asking for too much. Scared of being told that my love wasn’t wanted. So I let my love stay small. I kept it gentle and safe, so it wouldn’t get rejected. And in doing so, I think I let it go unnoticed.
There’s regret, of course—regret for the times I should have spoken up but didn’t. Regret for all the moments I could have let them see how much they meant to me but chose to stay silent instead. And then there’s the doubt: If they didn’t know, does that mean my love wasn’t real?
I want to believe it mattered. I want to believe that love doesn’t need to be loud to be real. But some days, I can’t help but feel like it wasn’t enough. Like I wasn’t enough. Because they moved on, and I stayed behind, holding the quiet love I gave so carefully.
And here’s the part I wrestle with the most: If they didn’t notice, was it still love? Can love exist without being seen or felt? I don’t know the answer.
What I do know is that I gave what I could. I loved them the best way I knew how at the time. It wasn’t perfect, and maybe it wasn’t the love they needed. But it was real. It mattered to me, even if it didn’t matter to them.
And yet, I’m learning something about love. Love doesn’t always stay quiet. Sometimes, it asks to be seen. Sometimes, it asks you to risk everything—to be bold, to be vulnerable, to be too much. And maybe that’s where I went wrong.
I thought love was about staying patient and unselfish. I thought it meant giving without asking. But now I wonder if love also means showing up. Letting yourself be seen, even if it’s scary. Because maybe love isn’t just about what you give. Maybe it’s also about how you give it.
The truth is, I don’t know how to love anymore. Not really. I’m scared to get it wrong again, to love too quietly and lose it all over again. But I’m also scared to love too loudly and find out it still isn’t enough.
So, I sit here with the question: Does love count if no one knows it’s there? I don’t have the answer yet. Maybe I never will. But for now, I think I’m learning to let that question sit. To let it exist without rushing to solve it.
