A Yes That Was Felt, Not Said

The beautiful pink trees along the roadside never caught my attention until I remembered that bougainvillea was her favourite. “It’s aesthetic,” she’d said, though I never quite understood what aesthetic meant. All I knew was that the color of bougainvillea suited her skin tone so well. She looked glorious in pink.

The wind hits me hard on my ride back home. I always dream of hearing her voice drifting into my ears while I drive, imagining her saying, “Hey, look at the moon! It’s so beautiful…” And my eyes would find hers through the rear-view mirror of my bike.

She admired the words my eyes spoke, yet she always asked me to say out loud what I felt about her—every time she wore a new dress, every time she changed her hairstyle, every time she tried a new shade of lipstick.

I never quite understood why she needed to ask. Silently, she was seeking assurance, so that her insecurities would never overshadow her beauty.

Her words always carried the distrust she had toward love. Every time she spoke of it, she wanted to be loved like a Disney princess—yet she never trusted love. She saw love all around her family, yet she was afraid to let herself be loved.

Oh! To love is easier than to be loved.

She never knew the taste of true love because life had never offered her the chance. And now that she finally had it, she couldn’t believe it was real. She didn’t realize that the love she was receiving was meant solely for her.

No one was playing with her heart anymore, yet she couldn’t comprehend it. She didn’t know how to accept it either.

She was soft, the way she spoke was soothing.

She was strong, though she didn’t know that love can make even the strongest people feel vulnerable. I never told her that truth.

I loved her in all the dreamiest ways possible.

She once said she would write about me—about the beautiful, cinematic times we shared. She said she’d write about all the flowers I gave her, and that one day she’d show her children each petal, telling them the story behind it.

She promised she’d teach them how to love someone by telling our story.

And while her children listen under the night sky, I only hope her eyes aren’t filled with tears.

Oh! I know she’ll talk about all the rainy days, all the endless conversations, the evening coffees, the prayers, and the laughter.

And after all those years of having only black clothes in her closet, I hope she tells them why everything she owns is pink now.

She trusted me… because I showed her what love truly is. I told her about the peace love brings, the glow it gives, the wealth it creates in the heart.

But I never had the courage to tell her about the pain that love can leave behind.

Whenever she walked toward me, I felt my breath catch in a way I’d never experienced before. I loved the fragrance that lingered when she passed by. I worshipped the very air she exhaled.

She knew all of this.

She felt loved—and loved me, perhaps, more than I ever imagined.

Yet she never admitted she loved me. Instead, she’d say she would leave me, and that I’d never be able to find her.

I only loved her more whenever she said that.

And when she wanted to stay… I realized I had nothing to give her except my love.

And I clearly know… sometimes, love alone is not enough.

So, I took back my love.

I pulled it away, so she would understand that I truly had nothing else to offer her.

I thought she’d leave once the love was gone.

But she stayed. She waited. Not this time to be loved—but to hold tight to the person who had loved her so deeply.

This time, she waited so long, hoping to help him win at life.

This time, she loved him—but chose to walk away, so he wouldn’t lose himself in loving her.

And I still don’t know how not to lose myself in loving her.

All the raindrops that hold the memories of our love watched silently from behind the clouds. Maybe they couldn’t wait any longer to give us a final embrace, so the unexpected rain fell straight from the sky—granting us one last memory of togetherness. The rain was heavy, just like her heart, and her eyes were red as never before.

So, when she tells this story to her children, as they lie on the terrace staring up at the stars, I hope the wind rustling through the trees in the yard kisses her cheeks—and reminds her that it was real. That it was love.

Because sometimes, the greatest yes between two souls is the one never spoken. It’s the yes that echoes quietly in glances, in waiting, in staying—even when the words are left unsaid. Ours was a yes that was felt, not said. And that yes became the most beautiful memory of all.