Unread Lines

My name is Rafael, and I’m from Mexico.

I write poems for her.

Not the kind you post publicly. Not the kind that gets likes or applause. I write them in quiet moments—late at night, early mornings, whenever her name crosses my mind and refuses to leave.

I used to send them to her.

At first, she reacted. A heart emoji. A “that’s nice.” Once, she said, “You’re really deep.” That single sentence carried me for weeks. It made me believe I was reaching her in a way no one else could.

So I kept writing.

I wrote about the way she laughs before she finishes a sentence. About how she looks when she’s tired but pretending she’s fine. About the version of her I saw when everyone else was distracted.

I poured myself into those lines. Carefully. Honestly.

She stopped replying.

Not suddenly. Slowly. Replies came hours later. Then days. Then not at all. But I kept sending the poems anyway, convincing myself that silence didn’t mean indifference. Maybe she was busy. Maybe she was saving them. Maybe she was reading them quietly and just didn’t know how to respond.

That lie kept me going longer than I’m proud of.

One night, she mentioned casually that she had “hundreds of unread messages” and never opened long ones. She laughed when she said it. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t realize she had just erased months of my heart in one sentence.

I went home and opened my notes app.

There were dozens of poems. All for her. All written with care. All unread.

I realized something painful in that moment: I wasn’t expressing love—I was talking to myself and calling it devotion. I had confused vulnerability with connection. I thought depth guaranteed intimacy.

It doesn’t.

Poetry doesn’t matter if the reader doesn’t care to read. Love doesn’t land just because it’s sincere. And effort doesn’t become meaningful simply because it hurts.

I stopped sending poems after that. Not dramatically. Not with an announcement. I just stopped.

I still write sometimes. But now the words stay with me. They’re not a currency. They’re not bait. They’re just thoughts, finally allowed to exist without expectation.

If someone doesn’t open your words,
don’t keep bleeding onto the page hoping they will.

My name is Rafael.
And I learned that silence can be the loudest answer of all.