we sat in that empty hallway,
coffee in one hand,
secrets in the other.
you told me—
"he said his new girlfriend's prettier than me."
you laughed after that,
like it was a joke.
but your eyes weren't laughing.
you said,
"i stopped wearing stupid skirts since then.
stopped trying.
now i just wear the same fucking black jeans,
same old sneakers,
every day."
"i don't feel…
i don't feel like someone people look at anymore."
and i wanted to punch the world.
to rewrite the words
some asshole carved into you.
but all i said was—
"i think you're gorgeous, Hazel."
you looked at me
like you didn't believe it.
like no one ever said that
without wanting something back.
but i meant it.
fuck, i meant it.
you were gorgeous
in your black jeans,
with your black painted nails,
with your half-tired voice
and your eyes that never begged to be seen.
i should've kissed you that night.
but instead,
i held the lie in my chest
and let it rot.
because i had a girlfriend.
and you were never supposed
to mean this much.