Most love poems want to say "I love you." Hiya's "Not Mine" is about the opposite: the words that never get said. Its speaker is in love with someone who belongs to somebody else, and the poem follows her as she stops asking whether he feels anything and starts teaching herself to accept that he doesn't. The central idea is that unrequited love is a lesson you give yourself, over and over, until it might finally stick.
The most striking choice is the word "maybe." It opens the first stanza three times, appears again in the second, and then comes four times in the third, once at the start of every line. Eight "maybes" make a mind going in circles. Maybe it was his voice, maybe his eyes. Maybe he knew, maybe he didn't. The third stanza ends on a pair of lines that contradict each other: "Maybe I was nothing for him, / Maybe I was all that he got." The speaker can't tell whether she mattered to him or meant nothing, and the repetition makes that uncertainty feel exhausting.
Then the poem changes. In stanza four, "Maybe" gives way to "I don't know the reasons, / I know just the words." Stanza five opens with "Because he didn't belong to me," a flat statement of fact. The poem moves from guessing to knowing, and the title, "Not Mine," names where it ends up. This is also where the other woman appears, in a single line: "She was the one who relieved him" (the poem's spelling is "relived," which reads like a slip for "relieved"). She is given no description, and the speaker calls her own effort "worthless," a harsh word that shows how much blame she puts on herself.
The imagery is simple and mostly about eyes, light and movement. In the first stanza he walks "Like a true dream full of lies," a good paradox, since a dream that is "true" and "full of lies" is exactly what a crush feels like when it's built on appearances. In the second, his eyes "made the light in my brain go dim," as if infatuation switches off her judgment. Later the image turns to confinement: the unspoken words "have locked me up in my own world." Silence has become a room she can't leave. The claim that these words changed her "past and present" is interesting too. Love has rewritten how she remembers things, not just how she feels now.
Walking comes back at the end. In stanza one it was "the way he walked" that captivated her. In the last stanza "he walks past me tonight," and this time she turns away to look at the moon. It's a small physical act of letting go, and it shows she is finally choosing not to watch him. Notice too that she never speaks to him. She speaks only to her heart: "tell my heart over and over again," then "tell my heart that it'll be alright." The moon is her only audience, and the pain is something she faces alone.
The form supports this. The poem has seven quatrains, with a loose rhythm of about four beats a line that stumbles in places, as if it were speech rather than polished verse. The rhymes are uneven. Some stanzas rhyme only on the second and fourth lines ("eyes" and "lies," "see" and "me"), and some are near-misses, like "words" and "world." Stanza three even rhymes "him" with "him," which sounds fixated. The last stanza is the neatest: "tonight" rhymes with "alright," and "moon" with "soon." That tidiness sounds like a reassurance she is trying to believe. Her wish that this "never ending pain will end soon" contradicts itself, which suggests she is still hoping rather than sure.
The poem is not complicated or showy, and its value lies elsewhere. It captures an experience many readers will recognise: smiling when you don't feel like it, saying "he never will belong to me" in your head until you half believe it. Its movement from "maybe" to certainty gives that ordinary feeling a clear shape, and its honesty, including the self-blame, stops it from becoming self-pity. The ending offers no victory, only the hope that the pain will pass, and that makes it believable.