Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
Despite the distance, despite the silence, despite the unanswered questions that linger between us, my heart still finds its way to you. Not to the memory of you. Not to the dream of who you could be. But to you. Despite all. Despite the nights I told myself to let go. Despite the reasons that whispered, "Move on." Despite the walls that life built between us. My heart remains stubborn. It still searches for your voice in crowded rooms. Still pauses when your name appears. Still carries a space shaped only for you. I have met many sunsets, watched many seasons change, and walked through countless days pretending that longing could simply disappear. But it never did. Because some people become more than a memory. They become part of the rhythm of your soul. And you... despite all the complications, despite all the uncertainty, despite all the ways life has tried to pull us in different directions— are still the person my heart calls home. I do not love you because everything i...