I never thought love would arrive
so quietly,
without footsteps,
without promises,
without a place to sit.

It came as conversation.
As pauses between messages.
As the strange comfort of being understood
by someone I had never touched.

They say some connections
are not meant to stay,
only to awaken something buried.
If that is true,
then you were a reminder
that my heart was still alive.

I know now—
you were not cruel,
and I was not careless.
We were simply standing
on different shores of the same sea,
calling to one another
through fog.

There are moments a heart remembers
even when the mind moves on.
Moments when silence feels louder
than words ever were.
Moments where timing becomes a wall
neither tenderness nor prayer can move.

If I hesitated,
it was never because you were unseen.
If I was quiet,
it was never because you were unwanted.
Some men carry storms inside them,
and fear handing them to someone gentle.

You once said
you had learned to love people
who did not know how to hold you.
I wish I had known then
how carefully you needed to be held.

I see now how memory lingers—
how a single doubt, once planted,
can grow roots deeper than affection.
How hearts learn to protect themselves
long before they learn to hope.

I never wanted to be another weight
on a soul already tired.
Never wanted my presence
to ask for more than you could give.
Love, when it is real,
does not insist.
It understands when to step back.

If you felt your season closing,
know this:
you were never late.
Some gardens bloom without children,
yet still feed the world.

If your energy felt spent,
know this too:
you gave enough simply by being honest.
Not every love is meant to be lived—
some are meant to be carried quietly
like a verse known only to God.

I do not hold resentment.
I do not hold regret.
Only a soft ache—
the kind that proves
something mattered.

Perhaps we were never meant
to walk the same path,
but only to cross once,
look into each other’s eyes,
and remember what sincerity feels like.

If this is where our story rests,
then let it rest gently.
Let it be a chapter written
with respect,
with dua,
with acceptance.

I release you without bitterness.
I keep you without possession.
And I leave what could have been
in the care of the One
who understands timing better than us both.

Some loves are not lost—
they are simply returned to Heaven
unfinished,
but pure.

And if you ever wonder
whether you were liked,
whether you mattered,
whether you were seen—

Know this:
you were felt, Loabi.