I keep telling myself, over and over again, that there was never anything written between us, that it was never meant for us to meet under the star of destiny, that everything was just a mere coincidence—one that we gave the face of choice. We both decided, consciously, to follow it, to live it. And yet, deep in my being, any logical thought unravels when I call you in my thoughts, when my soul longs for you, against the will of reason.
I wonder if, in the endless worlds that might be born and die in every blink of time, somewhere, we met and chose differently. There, perhaps, our story did not know an end. It was written for us to be, but not to remain. What cruel irony of fate. To know him so close and yet not be able to touch him, not even with the soul.
I carry you with me in secret, just as the sea carries the echo of fallen stars in its depths. I know who you are better than I know who I am. It stirs me how well I know you and yet how much of a stranger you are to me. My soul has not forgotten you—it remembers your scent, your smile, the way you sighed when something overwhelmed you. That smell of cigarette smoke and summer, with a hint of vanilla, is imprinted in my flesh, in my bones, in time.
I wish I could tell you all that I have kept silent. I wish you knew that every word I didn’t say was sincere in its silence. That, even though I never had the courage to confess it, I fell in love with you long before you ever looked at me. When you barely noticed me, I was already lost in your thought.
There are things left unsaid not out of indifference, but from weakness. But it is never too late for you to know them. Never too late to feel. If I could, I would give you my life to forget, but I would ask for a thousand more to love me. I would be lying if I told you that I no longer wish, even just once in a while, to hear your voice, to know you’re still there… to be…
