I like you.
It's one of the words I use often, yet it's the one word I can't utter in the moments I want it most.
Every time I see you, the inside of my chest quietly clenches.
Like a page of my notebook fluttering away on a gentle breeze, as I opened the window on a sunny spring day.
I keep getting my heart turned upside down by the quiet wind you stir.

I only look at you when you don't know.
I turn my head towards the sound of your laughter, then quickly avert my gaze, afraid our eyes might meet.
Sometimes, I worry if the keychain hidden behind my bag might jingle,
and I keep this feeling hidden, afraid it might jingle too.
You only need to remember me as the library club president.

I put the madeleines I made into my desk drawer,
and after imagining countless times if you might like them,
I end up eating them alone in silence.
They're sweet, but my mouth feels bitter.

So today too, I can't say it.
That I like you.
Instead, I quietly remember you.
Your back, which seeps in like sunlight melting away,
I quietly hold it within me.