Tito walked through crowded halls
like the world had written songs for her already,
and boys—
boys like me—
became background noise beneath her footsteps.
She never looked my way.
Not once.
Not in the way movies promise,
not in the way poets lie about.
And maybe that’s the tragedy of this generation:
we are taught to chase attention
like starving people chasing smoke.
A like becomes affection,
a glance becomes hope,
silence becomes sleepless nights.
I watched her laugh with people
who wore confidence like expensive perfume,
while I stood there
holding conversations in my head
that never reached my mouth.
Society tells boys to “man up,”
to never ache loudly,
to turn rejection into jokes
so nobody notices the bruises pride leaves behind.
So I laughed too.
Pretended Tito was just another girl.
Pretended her name didn’t sit in my chest
like an unfinished sentence.
But the truth is,
sometimes the people who never choose us
still change us.
Because after Tito,
I learned that being unseen
does not make someone worthless.
The moon is ignored every morning
and still returns every night glowing.
