I know a part of you wants to spare him the details, another part wants to tell him everything. But please, pause. Breathe. Think. Feel. Please try not to tell him that this is your first time, that this is a foreign feeling. Try not to tell him that your heart is fragile, safely kept from things that might break it, a bit cold and hard from years and years of holding back.
Try not to tell him that your mind paints its dark skies with cloudy shades of pastels, light and soft and beautiful, at every sight of his smile, the one that brings out the tiny dimples on his cheeks.
Try not to tell him that you speak of him in feathery words, in poetry and prose, at the back of an old notebook, gentle and warm at midnight when you're alone.
Try not to tell him that the walls of your room echo his favorite song, that the ceiling is witness to your daydreams and longing, that the floor catches you every time you fall for him.
Try not to tell him that you read between his words, hoping for first signs of spring, patiently and slowly waiting for the right ones that you hear only in made up scenes. Please try not to tell him that you've been waiting for too long.
Try not to tell him that you see past the times he forgot you exist in the same room, alone with your thoughts and same old self.
Try not to taste the metal on your tongue when he passes by without saying hello, headed somewhere you don't know, leaving a trail of scent that smells like him, so familiar yet gone so easily.
Please try not to tell him that you miss him: the way he puts his left hand on his nape when he's embarrassed, how he looks away in deep thought, his hearty laugh, his eyes that are the color of coffee, that one time when he accidentally brushed his arms against yours inside a crowded elevator, his small rounded handwriting, his white shirt that fits him perfectly, his singing voice. The list goes on. But please, pause. Breathe. Think. Feel.
Try not to tell him that you hide parts of yourself inside drawers, underneath the sheets, at the other side of the door, at the back of an old receipt; that you miss parts of your old self, too—the kinder one, the one who believed in pixie dust, magic.
Please try not to tell him that you watch his life virtually in squares and how you wish you could fit in that frame someday.
Please try not to tell him that you love him but not yet. Please, spare him the details, spare yourself from the hurt. Because deep down you know that he screams quietly, so clear and sure, for you to try not to love him yet.