I hadn’t known what I hadn’t known

damn i forgot that i had to do what i didn't know... and now i can't

I hate that right now

the only thing I crave

is to be heard—

not passively,

not with eyes that glaze

or minds that wander—

but with presence.

With hunger.

With care.

Someone who asks,

waits,

leans in.

Someone who listens

like they’ve been waiting

their whole life

to know what I might say.

It’s rare.

So rare that when I found it,

even for a moment,

I let myself believe.

I breathed it in

like spring air

after too many months of gray.

But spring can be cruel too.

Things bloom

only to wilt.

So I let it go.

Still—

I ache for it.

But from someone I want.

Someone who wants me too.

Who craves

the intricate folds of my mind,

who delights

in the slow unveiling.

I’ve only felt that once.

Early spring.

It was recent.

We met—

talked like time had no edges.

He asked the questions

no one else thought to ask.

He cared.

Really cared.

His birthday was coming.

I told him,

“Let me know how dinner goes.”

He did.

A photo,

a message—

sent like I was the first person

he thought of

when the night ended.

It felt real.

“I can’t wait for Saturday,”

he said again and again.

He picked me up early.

Offered me a drink

since he was already stopping in.

A small gesture—

unprompted,

considerate.

He opened every door.

Had the museum tickets ready.

I hadn’t known

a reservation was required—

he already had it covered.

We wandered exhibits

with conversation layered in nuance—

taste, instinct,

the soft reasoning behind preference.

It felt different.

Good different.

We missed the movie.

Neither of us noticed.

Phones untouched.

“Should I take you home now?”

he asked.

I said,

“Only if that’s what you want.”

He offered his place.

I said yes.

“I’m excited to show you how I decorated.”

We’d talked about his plans.

He remembered.

His room felt like him.

Warm.

Thoughtful.

He let me choose—

bedroom or couch.

I picked the couch.

He sat beside me,

his arm resting behind me,

not claiming,

just present.

The TV didn’t work—

no signal yet.

He offered the bed.

I hesitated.

Agreed.

We lay side by side—

his arm across my knee,

head cradled in his palm,

movie playing softly from his phone.

We were close.

Touching,

but gently.

Then his voice—

a whisper.

Soft.

Soaked in a kind of sensuality

I hadn’t yet learned to name.

“You feel soft,”

he said.

And I—

I just said, “Thank you.”

When maybe I should have

grazed his arm,

or let my fingers wander through his hair.

I hadn’t known

what I hadn’t known.

Then came the language

I didn’t speak yet—

his fingers brushing my knee,

light and searching.

I felt aroused.

But I stayed still.

I didn’t know

that was a question

waiting for an answer.

He paused.

Tried again.

Same touch.

Same stillness.

And then—

“I want to hit the gym before it closes.”

“I’ll take you home.”

No more opened doors.

No gentle glances.

Just quiet.

And something unspoken,

gone.

I still think about it—

what I missed,

what I misunderstood.

I still want

what we almost had.

But more than that,

I hate how rare it is

to be listened to

with intention.

To be heard—

not mistaken

for someone unwilling,

but someone waiting

for words.

For a signal.

For a door to open.

I would’ve said yes

to a kiss drawn out like a scene,

to fingers tangled in hair,

to the heat of a breath between us.

Not everything—

but enough.

Enough to meet him halfway.

If only he’d asked,

instead of mistaking stillness

for silence,

and silence

for a no.