Close your eyes and listen to me.
Not to my voice,
but to the quiet place beneath it—
the place where words are born before they learn how to survive the world.
If you listen closely,
you will hear your own heart.
That is where I live.
I was never loud in loving you.
I never demanded space in your life.
I arrived softly,
through conversation,
through shared silences,
through the strange familiarity of two souls
recognizing each other without permission.
You became my courage
without ever knowing you were being brave for me.
You became my determination
at a time when I was unsure
whether my heart still knew how to choose.
Some connections do not ask for commitment—
they ask for presence.
And you were present in ways
that altered my breathing,
my thinking,
my nights.
A half of me found refuge in you.
Not possession—
recognition.
And without intention,
a half of you settled in me too,
quietly,
without asking for permanence.
That is the most dangerous kind of closeness:
the one that does not promise forever
yet changes you anyway.
I never wanted either of us to break.
Not you—
with all you have already carried.
Not me—
with all I have learned too late.
I wanted us to remain intact,
even if we could not remain together.
You were never just someone I spoke to.
You were a place I arrived at
when the world became too sharp.
You were the calm inside my chaos,
the steady thought I returned to
when doubt crowded my mind.
I was not trying to own you.
I was trying to understand
how something so gentle
could feel so necessary.
I am your dream,
not because I could fulfill it,
but because dreams exist
where reality cannot safely go.
And you are my promise—
not one I could demand,
but one I made silently:
to never reduce what we shared
to something small or disposable.
There were nights
when your words replayed themselves
long after the screen went dark.
Nights when silence was louder
because it carried your absence.
Your name did not leave my lips—
it flowed through them.
Unannounced.
Unstoppable.
I sang only of you,
not in melodies the world could hear,
but in prayers,
in thoughts,
in the quiet rituals of remembering.
And yes—
there were moments
when the distance felt unbearable,
when not reaching you
felt like slowly losing air.
But love, when it is real,
does not demand arrival.
Sometimes it survives
by learning how to wait.
If our story remains unfinished,
let it remain honest.
Let it remain untouched by bitterness.
Let it be something beautiful
that existed because it was sincere,
not because it was easy.
I do not regret loving you this way.
I do not regret the nights,
the words,
the unspoken understanding.
Some loves are not meant to be held.
They are meant to be honored.
So if you ever feel uncertain
about whether you were important,
whether you were chosen in some quiet way,
whether you were loved—
Close your eyes.
And listen.
You will hear your heart.
And somewhere within it,
you will hear me too.
