LISTEN TO ARTICLESynthesized Narration • 0:00 / 0:00

He caught my attention—through the casual message in our group chats, his occasional laugh that drifts across online meetings, and how others always mention him even when he's not there. I remember I once imagined a story where my feelings would be returned, where distance could dissolve, and where my heart could reach out without fear. One story ended, another quietly emerged. And for now, I'll let myself just admire him—not with expectations, not with longings, but with the soft awareness of someone who is beautiful enough to witness, even from afar. What strange comfort I feel in this distance. I do not send him private messages; I do not seek his attention. I watch, I listen, I notice the little things—the way he types, the small warmth hidden between words, the thoughtfulness in how he responds to others. In these fragments, he exists for me as a presence that I can hold safely. Admiration from afar is a gentle ritual; it does not demand, it only allows. I saw his posts—how admirable he is, how great he is, and how kind. And yes, slowly but not surely, I like him, and admiring him is enough. The distance between us is enough; there is no need for conversation between us, no need for confession just to get his attention. Just being with him in the same organization is enough for me because somehow, I feel his presence. Even though I am not next to him, I have not seen him in person, but I still feel it. And sometimes, I catch myself smiling at nothing more than his words, floating across a screen I will never touch. Our group chat is like a theater, and he, unwittingly, is the main character for me. While I, like one of his audience, quietly listen and appreciate the rhythm of his thoughts that seem to echo in my eyes, the cadence of his humor, and the unspoken kindness that slips through interactions not meant for me at all. And there we are—I feel a strange intimacy in the observations: intimacy without intrusion, connection without possession. And suddenly, I remember the sting of my past rejection—a quiet yet persistent memory that still lingers like a shadow that haunts every corner of my mind. I had once allowed myself to hope, to dream so high, to imagine a closeness that was never returned. Yet, I still feel the pain, but I discovered resilience. I have learned that admiration does not have to carry heavy expectations; it can still exist as pure acknowledgment. I know for myself, there is no chance of reciprocation—but that's okay. Just quietly watching him is enough. What fascinates me more is how this admiration mirrors my own capacity to feel. Even after being turned away, my heart is willing to stretch again, to bend without breaking, to notice beauty without demanding something. And it always reminds me that emotions are not weaknesses—they are evidence of courage, of the willingness to open oneself to the world despite its cruelty, to feel gently and even cautiously. To love quietly, secretly, is a form of bravery I am only now learning to honor. In these moments, I'll allow myself to exist in parallel with him—two lives touching only in thought and observation. The world outside continues, conversation continues, and he continues, unaware of the quiet attention that follows him. And yet, this attention is enough—it warms without burning, it reaches without grasping. I am learning that there is beauty in quiet longing, in admiration that asks for nothing but the chance to exist. Yes, for me, he just exists between words and signals—sounds fictional because he’s never there in person, but always within reach. Sometimes, when I scroll through a group chat, it's not to find him, but he's still there, every trace of him: a comment he left, a reaction, and a simple sentence that feels like it carries a heavier message than it should. It feels strange because it seems like I can feel him even if it's just digitally, even if I can't hear his voice in person. I notice everything, how we write a sentence with sincerity, how he remembers small things about others. And even the punctuation he uses feels familiar now, like a rhythm I can almost remember and anticipate. His kindness shows in fragments, and somehow, those fragments are enough to build a whole picture in my mind. I know what it feels like to hope too much, to reach out only to find emptiness on the other side. This time, I won't ask for anything anymore—not even acknowledgement. I'm just allowing myself to feel again, in silence, in safety. Sometimes, I wonder, what will happen when I see him—would he sound the way I imagine? Will his smiles still remain, the warmth I feel even when I only read his words? I don't know, but maybe, and thinking about it is so sweet, and that's enough. It's like reading a book I haven't finished, and yet, still treasure the chapter I've read. So I'll stay here, in this quiet corner of affection, watching him from afar without asking for attention from him. It's not a burden—it's a kind of peace. The admiration has become a small, steady light in me, shining weakly, asking for nothing, giving all I can in silence