What do you hate about yourself?
Sometimes
I expect a little more—
more than what a moment means,
more than what a person ever promised.
And I watch her laugh
in places I can see,
replying to everyone
like the world is easy for her—
like I’m not waiting
in the corner of it.
I know—
we are nothing.
just friends, maybe not even that yet.
no promises, no claims, no right.
Still,
there’s this small, stubborn voice in me
that whispers—
“just a little more… just me, for a moment.”
And I hate that voice.
Because it turns seconds into questions,
and silence into doubt.
It makes me measure my worth
in replies that never came.
It’s not her fault.
It never was.
She is just being—
free, light, untouched by the weight
I quietly place on her name.
But me—
I sit here
pretending I don’t care,
while checking again,
and again,
and again.
I hate
how something so small
can make me feel so replaceable.
I hate
that I expect
what I never asked for.
And most of all—
I hate that even now,
if her message comes,
I’ll forget all of this…
and reply
like I was never waiting at all.