It wasn’t the internet, no.

This wasn’t about missed calls or poor connections.

It was something deeper 

a rhythm of almosts and retreats,

like a dance where one partner always paused mid-step.

His silence was never empty.

It was alive.

Each glance felt like a secret debate,

a board meeting held behind his eyes,

motions raised, arguments whispered,

but the minutes never shared with me.

And still, he noticed me.

He noticed everything.

The day I missed work, his message arrived before noon:

“You didn’t show up today. You good?”

The day I changed my hair, he tilted his head,

studied me carefully,

and said softly,

“This one suits your eyes.”

How do you ignore a man

whose attention lingers like sunlight,

warming everything it touches?

But that attention unsettled me.

Because attention is not casual

attention is intention, even when unspoken.

So I thought of him, too much.

Should I just ask him? I’d wonder.

Then pride would rise:

No. Don’t sound desperate. He should be bold enough.

And doubt would whisper back:

Or maybe he doesn’t even have the words to talk the love talk.

Every laugh we shared was a breadcrumb,

every pause, a locked drawer.

And I, restless,

became an archaeologist of his silences,

digging for meaning in half-smiles,

studying the way his voice grew tender

whenever he said my name.

But just when I thought he would step forward,

he pulled back again.

Shuffle.

Pause.

Retreat.

That was where his eyes kept me waiting,

in the fragile space between what was said

and what was almost said.

Until one evening, over suya and soft laughter,

my patience broke.

My voice trembled,

but carried the weight of two

 years of unspoken hope.

“Tell me,” I whispered,

“what exactly are we doing?”

The world froze.

The night air held its breath.

For a moment, I thought I had leapt too far,

sounded too desperate, ruined the balance.

But then he smiled.

That kind of smile that spills light into dark rooms.

“I was waiting,” he said slowly,

“to see if you would ever ask me that.

I wasn’t sure if you’d reject me.

I’ve been in my building phase

laying bricks of who I want to become,

trying to be enough for you, for us.”

And suddenly, the pauses made sense.

He hadn’t been running from me.

He had been running toward the man he longed to be,

dragging time with him,

hoping I would still be there when he arrived.

Something inside me softened.

The doubts, the battles, the long nights of overthinking—

they dissolved in the light of his honesty.

Because here he was,

not perfect, not polished,

but real.

And real, I realized,

is the most poetic kind of love.

So I reached across the table,

smiled through the storm in my chest,

and whispered,

“Then let’s build together.”

And just like that,

the waiting ended.

The board meeting in his eyes finally adjourned

not with silence,

but with a promise spoken out loud.