Schrödinger's Love.

I love you

in a way that defies logic—

like quantum mechanics for the heart.

Uncertain.

Unresolved.

Unreal, but not unrealized.

We are the cat in the box.

You and I.

Trapped in a question mark,

curled up in maybe.

You didn't say you loved me,

but you didn't say you didn't.

And so I live

in the in-between.

Breathing in the space between your glances

and the absence of goodbye.

We are both

alive

and

dead.

A maybe

held hostage by silence.

You smile like gravity doesn't apply to your lips.

I laugh like your indecision has never broken me.

We circle like atoms—

never touching,

but always close enough to burn.

I want to ask,

"Do you love me?"

But what if the answer

kills the question?

Because once you observe the truth

the possibilities collapse.

Once you open the box,

the maybe dies.

And maybe—

maybe is where I keep all my hope.

I feed that maybe

like a stray dog in winter.

Let it lick my fingers

while pretending not to notice

it's starving.

I wear denial

like it's perfume,

sweet and cloying,

covering the stench of knowing

you aren't truly mine.

I convince myself

your texts at 2 a.m.

mean something.

That your eyes hold ellipses

instead of periods.

That the way your voice softens

when you say my name

is proof.

Proof of love.

Or something like it.

But is it?

Or am I

projecting light into a black hole

just to watch it disappear?

You've become both savior and ghost.

You hold my hand in dreams

and leave fingerprints in my real-world doubts.

I am Schrödinger's lover—

somehow kissed, but always aching.

The box just sits there.

Taped shut

with all the things I'll never say.

Every joke you make that I'm taking too seriously.

Every almost

that might turn into always.

And some days I want to rip it open.

Tear through the silence

and demand a verdict.

Yes or no.

Love or don't.

Let me live or let me grieve.

But what if I look inside

and find only emptiness?

What if this love

only ever exists

in the echoes of my own hope?

So I don’t open it.

Not yet.

Because maybe—

maybe still breathes.

And never

never feels too final.

And I’m not ready

to mourn something

that might still

be alive.