Drafts She Never Opened

The notes app on my phone is full of her.

Not messages—drafts. Lines written at 2:14 a.m. Lines written on buses, in waiting rooms, during moments when I should’ve been paying attention to my own life. Every poem has her fingerprints on it, even though she’s never touched a single one.

I used to send them.

At first, she reacted. A quick emoji. A “wow.” Once, she said I was talented. That word lodged itself deep in my chest and refused to leave. I took it as permission. As encouragement. As proof that I should keep going.

So I did.

I wrote when she was sad. I wrote when she was distant. I wrote when she didn’t reply, convincing myself that my words would eventually reach her when she was ready. I believed poetry was patience in another form.

Then the replies slowed. Then they stopped.

The messages stayed on “seen.” Sometimes not even that. I told myself she was busy. I told myself meaningful things don’t need immediate responses. I told myself lies that were gentle enough to sleep beside.

One night, she mentioned—laughing—that she never reads long messages. That she just scrolls past them.

She didn’t say it cruelly. She didn’t have to.

I went home and opened the poems I had written for her. Read them back to myself. They were careful. Vulnerable. Honest. And completely homeless.

That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t being romantic. I was being invisible with extra steps.

I had turned my feelings into content for someone who never pressed “open.” I thought depth would make me stand out. Instead, it made me easier to ignore.

I stopped sending poems after that. The silence between us didn’t change much—which told me everything I needed to know. My words had never been holding us together. They were just filling the space where self-respect should’ve been.

I still write. But now the poems stay where they belong—with me. They don’t chase anyone. They don’t ask to be chosen.

Because if someone doesn’t read your words,
they’re not waiting for more.

They’re already gone.