Vaishu writes

She writes in verses, soft and deep, Where love and longing gently sleep. In every line, his name takes flight, A quiet star in her endless night. Her pen bleeds dreams he cannot read, Though he's the muse, he doesn't heed. He speaks in glances, not in rhyme, His world runs fast, not marked by time. She hands him poems, heart unrolled, He shrugs, not grasping what they hold. No praise, no pause, no gentle sigh, Just puzzled looks and passing by. Yet still she writes — her silent art, With hope that someday he’ll take part. Not in her stanzas, line by line, But in the space where meanings shine. For love speaks not in ink alone, It’s in the way two hearts are shown. She dreams he'll learn, not how to write, But how to feel her quiet light. And maybe when her pages fade, He'll miss the words he never weighed — The girl who built a world so wide, While he stood watching from outside - V@!$HN@V! DH@M0DH@₹@N

I scroll past smiles and charming lines, Ignore the sparks, decline the signs. For one lone boy who doesn’t see— The quiet war he wakes in me. No title binds, no vows are sworn, Yet still, for him, my heart is torn. Not his to claim, yet mine to give, In silent hope, I choose to live. While others try, I walk away, Their voices fade, he makes me stay. He isn’t mine, yet holds me still, A ghost I follow by pure will. So call it foolish, call it fate, But love like this won't hesitate. I stay unseen, I don’t implore— But I am his, and nothing more.     -VAISHNAVI DHAMODHARAN