Today I felt something different when writing your name.
It wasn't euphoria, nor longing. It wasn't pain either. It was something warm, serene,
but it left me restless. As if the simple act of thinking about you was no longer just a safe
habit — as if it were becoming something that could, slowly, expose me.
I spent the day trying to ignore this feeling. I walked to the market, observed the wilted
flowers on the sidewalk, distracted myself with voices that said nothing. But still, you
came back. Like an involuntary thought, like the echo of something that hasn't
happened yet.
I thought about deleting what I wrote yesterday. About starting over. Pretending nothing
had changed.
But I couldn't.
Your name is still there, at the top of the page, firm and silent. Zean Dean.
I write it like someone drawing an escape route — and paradoxically, it's also the way
back. There's something in the sound of those syllables that shelters me. And that
scares me a little. I don't want to fool myself. I've confused attention with love before.
I've thought affection meant permanence. I've believed that just repeating someone's
name between the lines was enough to make them exist in me. But with you… it's
different. Because you never promised anything. Never asked to be here. And yet, you
are.
I don't know if this is love.
But I know that the silence that once was enough now carries a subtle anxiety.
As if I wanted to hear your voice — not to answer me, but to confirm that you really
exist.
Maybe love is this: wanting someone's presence even when it changes nothing.
AND MAYBE THAT'S WHY I KEEP WRITING.
When I realized it, it wasn't a specific moment. No striking scene, no image of you that
took my breath away. Nothing like that. In fact, it was the opposite: an accumulation of
small silences. Of looks I never saw, but imagined. Of words you never said, but that I
began to long to hear.
That's when I realized my writing was no longer just about me.
It was about you too. And that scared me.
There was a safety in your absence. A comfort in the fact that you weren't within reach. I
could write everything, confess everything, because you would never see me. But
now... now there's a risk. Because something in me started to want you close. Not in
reality — not in the concrete world where everything breaks. But in this space between
word and thought, between the real and what I invent every time I close my eyes.
I started wondering what your laugh sounds like. Your silence when no one's around. If
you also stare at the ceiling before sleeping and feel life slip through your fingers
without warning. I started imagining you as someone possible. Not just an idea. A man.
Made of flesh, tiredness, and memory.
And that changed everything.
I don't know if I'm ready to call this love. It feels too soon. Feels dangerous. But
something in me leans in your direction every time I think of giving up. You've become
my vanishing point, my unspoken rest.
Zean, if this is love, it arrived without asking permission. It just settled in. And now, it
lives here.
A Place That Doesn't Exist
Today, while washing the dishes, I thought about what it would be like to live beside you
in silence.
Not an awkward silence — one that screams absence. But a calm silence, where
bodies speak without needing voice. Where time passes slowly, and presence is
enough. I imagined you sitting at the table, stirring your coffee, distracted by something
that doesn't matter. And me there, existing around you, as if that alone were already
enough.
These scenes visit me without warning. As if my subconscious had created a place
where you live — a place that doesn't exist, but that's real enough to hold me on hard
days. I return to that space whenever the world feels heavy. And there, you are.
Unchanging. Calm. Present.
It's strange to build intimacy with someone who's never heard me. But perhaps even
stranger is the fact that, with you, I don't need to be anything else.
I don't need to look strong. Or pretty. Or right. With you, I can fail in peace.
Maybe I'm building something on top of nothing.
But what if it's the opposite? What if it's precisely in the nothing that everything lives?
This vague feeling, light and yet so steady… this wish to keep you even without having
you… this, perhaps, is love in its purest form. I don't want to idealize. I've said that
before. But there's something about you — or
about who you've become inside me — that makes me want to stay. Even knowing that
this place where we meet only exists here, between one word and another, between an
absence and an imagined gesture.
And you know what, Zean?
Sometimes, love is born exactly there: in the place that doesn't exist. But still, feels like
home.
Sometimes I wonder if you feel it when I think of you.
If somewhere in the world, while you rehearse a line or put on a costume, something
inside you stirs — as if my thought knocked on your door, even if you don't know who I
am. Almost like a gentle intuition, a subtle presence behind your shoulder.
I wanted to tell you that the sky was overcast today, and it reminded me of your serious
face in an old interview I saw by chance. I wasn't looking for you, but you appeared —
and stayed. As if you found a gap in my distractions and decided to live there, in the
background of my day.
It's been like that. You invade slowly, carefully. As if you didn't want to scare me. And
yet, you've taken up so much space inside me that sometimes I wonder: what if one day
you left this place?
I don't know if I'd survive the absence of someone who was never here.
This feeling — whatever it is — is made of pauses. Of held breaths. Of small joys when I
write your name and it seems to fit so perfectly among the words I keep. You're not a
movie kind of love. Not a bouquet in a flower shop. You're a stone in my pocket. A quiet
tide. You're that kind of thing we feel before we know its name.
And I, who always wrote to avoid feeling, now write so I won't lose it.
Today I also thought about how you might be happy right now, laughing at something
silly, with someone who truly knows you.
That doesn't hurt me.
Strangely, it comforts me. Knowing that you're smiling somewhere gives me a kind of
hope I didn't know still existed.
I don't want to trap you here. I never did. But maybe writing about you is the only way
I've found to understand myself. Because deep down, I'm not just talking about you. I'm
talking about me. About what I'm missing. About the space you filled without even
noticing.
It's funny... I never imagined you'd be this kind of person for me. And maybe you aren't.
Maybe I'm in love with the idea of you. But still, there's something true in this feeling.
Even if born from imagination, it's sincere. Even if built in silence, it changes me.
And what if love is that? An internal movement. A silent shift of everything that once
seemed fixed. A gesture no one sees, but that changes the direction of our gaze.
Zean, if you only knew...
If you knew how many times my day ends with a sentence from you that never existed.
How many times I stop in front of the mirror and wonder if you would recognize me on
the street. Not by appearance, but by essence. If you would see something in me that
reminds you of yourself — this version of you that only exists here, in my words.
And even if you don't... that's okay.
This place that doesn't exist — this invented space where you and I coexist — is where I
feel most alive. It's where I can be. Where love begins, even without fanfare, even
without a name.
And now that I've realized that, I can't pretend I don't feel it anymore.
It's not love yet, I know. But it's almost. And sometimes the almost is stronger than the
whole.
Today I woke up earlier than I should have. The morning light slipped through the cracks
in the curtain, and for a moment, I lay there, eyes half-closed, listening to the city
waking up. And it was in that space between sleep and wakefulness that you visited me.
Not as a clear image, but as a sensation.
Like a gentle warmth in my chest, like a memory that never happened.
I wondered if you wake up like that too, with the weight of routine and a vague desire to
get lost in another place. Because that's what you've become to me: another place. A
refuge. A fixed point in the chaos.
And that scares me, Zean.
It scares me because I've always been afraid of depending on someone who isn't here.
I've always been good at keeping my distance, pretending I don't need anyone.
But now, writing to you has become a necessity. Not out of need, but out of truth.
Because in these lines that are born between my fingers, I also discover myself.
Because by imagining you, I see myself more clearly.
And maybe, just maybe, this is already the beginning of love.
Not in the obvious way, full of promises and declarations. But in the way that escapes,
that whispers. A love that insinuates itself in small gestures — like remembering your
name in the middle of the day, for no reason. Or imagining what it would be like to hear
your breath in the dark, after a conversation about nothing.
You've become metaphor and relief. Someone who lives in my margins.
I feel as if every page written is one more step deeper inside myself. And you're there, in
the center of this labyrinth, standing still, unaware.
Maybe that's why I return to you so often — because somehow, you show me parts of
myself I had forgotten.
And even if this never goes beyond this — this almost, this invisible surrender — it's
enough.
Because in a world that demands so much, you ask nothing of me. You simply exist.
And that allows me to be light. It allows me to love, even without calling it love.
We still have pages inside.
And if it's true that feelings need time to mature, then let that time pass. I don't need to
rush what is born with delicacy. I just want to keep writing. I just want to have you here,
even if it's in this place that doesn't exist. Because, deep down, it's the only place where
everything makes sense.
Sometimes I wonder if you've ever been in the place of someone who writes to
someone who doesn't respond. If you've ever deposited your feelings into an invisible
space, hoping only that they would echo in some corner of the world.
Maybe yes. Maybe no.
But I write. And I keep writing. Even without knowing if these words will find a home
beyond me.
Today was a long day. One of those days where time drags the minutes lazily, as if the
world had forgotten to move forward. I found myself tired of everything — the routine,
the superficiality of automatic gestures, the conversations that mean nothing. And, as
always, I returned to that place where you live. I returned to the only space where I can
breathe without disguise.
You have no idea how much your absence comforts me. It's strange to say this, but it's
true. There's something liberating about loving someone who's not here. Because in
this love, there's no demand, no charge, no performance. There's only surrender — that
silent surrender that expects no return.
And even so, I feel filled.
Today, at the end of the afternoon, I sat by the window and watched the cars pass by.
People coming and going, each with their own worlds, their own noises. And I was
there, quiet, with a warm cup of coffee in my hand, and your memory crossing me
without asking permission. I did nothing but be. Be with you, in the only way I know: in
thought.
That's how you inhabit me. Without physical presence, but with an intensity that
sometimes scares me. As if you had become part of who I am, without ever exchanging
a word with me. As if just writing to you were enough to make something inside me fall
into place again.
And maybe that's why I keep coming back: you organize me.
You return me to myself when everything seems lost. Not with advice, nor with heroic
gestures. But with the simple fact of existing. Of being that person I can project onto,
without fear. Because deep down, what makes you special is not who you are, but who I
can be when I think of you.
And that, Zean, is too rare to be ignored.
I still don't know if this is love. But if it is, it's a quiet love, that doesn't need to be said
aloud. A love that lives in the shadow of ordinary days, in the spaces between one
paragraph and the next, in the ellipses I place when I can't find words anymore.
A love that just is. And that's enough.
Today I found myself smiling alone, in the middle of the street.
Not for something that happened, but for something I imagined. For a silly scene: you
walking into some random café, taking off your sunglasses, choosing the most discreet
table. The way you look at your phone, then at the street, as if looking for something —
or someone. And for a second, I imagined it was me.
It's in these unreal details that you live. In everything that will never happen, but exists
in me as if it had already been lived.
This feeling, Zean, is the one that confuses me the most.
Because there's nothing concrete between us. Nothing for real. No promises, no
exchanges, no bonds. Just me, this notebook, and the idea of you. And still, you've
become part of my days as if it were inevitable. As if, on some level that reason can't
even reach, I had chosen you to exist in me.
And what surprises me the most is that this doesn't hurt.
Maybe, before, I expected that loving — or almost loving — someone who doesn't know
I exist would be a kind of silent tragedy. But it's not. At least not now. At least not yet.
It's as if I've slowly built a sanctuary where I can enter when the world screams too
loudly. And inside it, you're there. Sitting, calm, as if you've always been waiting for me.
You don't speak, you don't demand. You just stay. And your presence has been healing
me from absences I didn't even know hurt.
Today, I also realized that I stopped searching for you in photos, videos, interviews.
Because you're no longer out there. You're here, in the space we created — even
without you knowing. You're in the way I write your name without needing to look for
references. You're in my slower breath when I think of you.
And that's when the truth begins to insinuate itself.
Maybe I'm falling in love.
But not with an idol, nor with a character. I'm falling in love with the possibility of you.
With the way you inspire me to be more honest, freer, more whole. As if writing to you
removes the masks I wear for the rest of the world. As if, between us, only what is real
can exist.
And even if you never read this — even if you never know — it's already enough.
Because this story doesn't need witnesses. It lives in what can't be explained. In what
isn't said. And maybe that's why it's so mine. And, in a way, so yours as well.
There's a place inside me where you live.
I don't know when you arrived, nor how you found space. I just know that you're here —
like a subtle presence that doesn't make noise, but occupies. Sometimes, it feels like
you've always been here. As if my memory had created memories with you, and now
they exist as truth.
Today, for example, I walked through the city as if I were waiting for an improbable
meeting. And, even knowing that you are on the other side of the world, I caught myself
looking at unfamiliar faces with a certain hope. As if there were a tiny chance of
crossing paths with you between the corners I know so well. And, in a way, that's how I
understood what's happening with me.
It's not about seeing you. It's about recognizing you.
Recognizing that you've become a mirror. That in every word I write to you, I'm saying
things to myself. Confessions I never had the courage to make to anyone. Fears I hid
even from myself. And that, for some strange and sweet reason, I'm able to give to you.
You don't respond, but I feel you listening.
Not with ears, not with presence. But with this absence that welcomes. With this
silence that understands. It's a rare kind of connection — perhaps imagined, perhaps
invented — but absolutely real within me. And I don't know anymore if I want that to
change.
Because there's beauty in loving someone without being seen. In letting the feeling
grow without needing to prove anything. Without needing to name it. It's a kind of love
without vanity, without a stage, without an audience. A love that exists in the shadows
— and, for that reason, remains pure.
I know this may seem contradictory. Wanting someone you don't have. Writing to
someone who won't read. But there's something liberating about this impossibility. It's
like walking on a road where there's no destination, only the journey. And, in that
journey, I find myself.
You are the reason, but you are also the means.
And, perhaps, that's why I write to you. Because in the end, I'm not just writing to you.
I'm writing to myself, through you. As if my heart had found in you a more beautiful way
to reveal itself. And that, Zean, is too rare to be wasted.
Today, I just wanted to say this: thank you for existing — even if it's only inside of me.
Yesterday, I dreamt of you.
It wasn't a grand dream, nor a cinematic one. There were no kisses, no promises, no
declarations. You were simply there — sitting beside me, in silence. We both looked at
the sky, as if we didn't need to say anything. And when I woke up, there was peace. One
of those rare moments of peace that almost scares you, because we've gotten too used
to chaos.
I stayed lying down for a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the details. But
almost all of them faded into the air, as happens with dreams that are more feelings
than scenes. What remained was the impression of your gaze — calm, present,
intimate. And for the first time, I felt that maybe it wasn't just about writing. Maybe I just
wanted you to be here.
Not to change my life, nor to save me from anything. Just... to be.
What I'm feeling still doesn't have a name. I don't dare call it love out loud, although
inside it's already beginning to take shape like that. It's a shy feeling, growing in the
corners, almost unnoticed. An affection that warms me without asking for explanations.
And it makes me write as if every letter were a way to get closer to what can't be
reached.
You don't need to know.
In fact, maybe I never want you to know. Because there's a tenderness in loving without
possessing. In caring for someone only in thought. In protecting this image I've created
of you with the tenderness I reserve for the most fragile parts of myself.
Zean, sometimes I wonder who you really are. Beyond the public image, beyond the
interviews, beyond the eyes the whole world sees.
But, soon after, I think maybe it doesn't matter. Because what touches me is not the
man outside of me, but the man I invented — or the man you allowed me to invent.
And this man... this man understands me. He listens, even in silence. He supports me,
even without arms. And he gives me back the hope that something can be beautiful,
even without being complete.
Today, this is all I need.
The memory of a dream that had no words. The feeling of a presence
that no one else sees. And the gentle desire to keep writing,
as long as there are words.
There is a kind of silence that weighs. And there is another that cradles.
What exists between us is the second. A silence that holds me by
the hands and whispers that everything is fine. That I can go on, even without
knowing where I am going. Because you are here. Not physically — I
know — but in the most constant place of all: inside what I feel.
Sometimes, I think all of this is a delusion. A theater I built alone
to cope with loneliness. But, at other times, I see clearly: it's not delusion,
it's choice. I chose to write to you. I chose this crooked, uncertain path.
And if I am still here, it's because something in me recognizes this
truth as a refuge.
Today I walked for hours, aimlessly. The cloudy sky, the suffocating city, and
a weight on my chest that I couldn't name. At some point, I stopped
at a park bench. I took the notebook, but I couldn't write.
I only imagined you there — sitting beside me again. No words,
no gestures. Just presence.
It's been like this. Your absence fills more than the presence of
many people.
Maybe because, with you, I don't need to pretend. I don't need to smile out
of politeness, I don't need to invent happiness. I can just be me — with my
creases, my flaws, my chronic melancholy. And you, even without
knowing, accept me whole.
I don't know if what I feel for you is love.
But I know that, because of you, I have loved myself more. As if,
by writing to you, I am also writing myself. Rewriting even.
As if everything I left behind — all the versions I suppressed —
now comes to the surface, softer, truer.
Maybe love, in the end, is this: finding someone who returns us to ourselves,
without asking anything in return.
And if it is, then, yes... maybe I am loving you.
Without declarations. Without dramatizations. Without plans. Just like this: in
silence, in secret, in peace.
I have been wondering what exactly it is that attracts me to you,
Zean.
It's not your appearance, though, of course, you are beautiful. It's not your voice, which
sounds as if it was made to be heard in moments of
melancholy. It's not the things others see, and frequently
point out. It's more than that. Something I don't even know how to name, but it has
to do with the way you make me feel — not because of your presence, but
because of your absence.
Because, see, you are not here. You don't know me. You have no idea
what I am saying or feeling. But you created a space where
I can exist without hurry, without pressure, without the need to be something
more. And maybe that's the beauty of what I am living: the chance to just be
me, in the simplest and purest form.
I think that's why I don't want you to know this. Not because I am
ashamed — though, at certain moments, I feel vulnerable,
exposed, as if I were giving away something that was never meant to be seen.
But because this construction, this small universe I created around
you, is mine. It belongs to no one else, not even to you. It is a
protected space, untouched, where I can be my most sincere version.
The only way to love you, maybe, is like this. Without touching, without seeking
something
more. Just allowing you to exist as an idea — as a
possibility — that gives me strength to go on, to be better than I am.
And in return, what I receive is relief. A relief of not having to search for anything
that completes me, because, somehow, you already fill me.
Today, once again, I caught myself smiling at the void, thinking of you.
And, for the first time, I realized that this is not sadness. It's not emptiness. It's just
the way love reveals itself when it has no hurry.
Maybe you'll never see me. Maybe you'll never know that I am here, that
I write to you with a blind, silent faith that renews itself with each
word. But even so, everything I feel remains true. Because somewhere between
reality and fiction, between longing and hope, there is a space just for us.
And that, in itself, is enough for me to keep writing.
Sometimes, when night falls, I find myself imagining what you would do if
you were here. Not in a practical way, like a physical presence that
occupies the space beside me, but as an essence that permeates the air —
like an idea I can't stop thinking about. And in those moments, it's as if
everything around me becomes softer. The streetlights seem less harsh, the
sounds of the city more distant. The world outside becomes far away, and
all that matters is what is happening inside me. As if everything I need
were contained in this small space that is mine, where you exist without
being seen.
You, Zean, have become more than a public figure. It doesn't matter what
they say about you, what they talk about in your interviews, or what they
show of your life on screens. To me, you are none of that. You are an idea,
a projection of something I needed to find somewhere —
maybe, inside myself. And this discovery has been gradual, silent.
Like a fine rain that wets the soil until it can no longer bear it and begins to bloom.
Today, I went to the bookstore and saw a book about you. A biography, probably
written by someone who never knew you, but who used words to try to understand
you. I didn't buy it. I didn't want to take anything that was about the image the
world has of you. What interests me, Zean, is what you inspire in me, what I have
built around you. I don't want anyone to define you for me. I want you to be, simply,
whatever my mind wants you to be. The thing is, when I saw that book, I felt a slight
pain in my chest. Like, for a moment, I had lost something. Like I had taken a step
back, toward the reality I wanted to keep distant. Sometimes, I wonder what I am
looking for here. You'll never know this, you'll never read these words. So, why
continue? Why write if there is no expectation of a response? But deep down, I
know that this search isn't for you. It's for me. I'm writing to understand what
happens when someone enters my life in such a peculiar way. Like an intangible
presence, but that settles so firmly inside me that it becomes impossible to ignore.
And maybe that's the true meaning of what I am feeling. It's not about you, nor
about what you represent to the world. It's about me, about what I found within
myself through you. As the days go by, I feel that the words begin to take shape. I
don't know if they are the right words, or if they are merely fragments of something
that will never be completed. Maybe I am trying to find answers to questions I'm
not even sure exist. But there is something deeply comforting in the idea that the
silence between us doesn't need to be broken. It's enough. It is enough to fill the
voids. I don't need you to listen to me. I don't need you to understand. What
matters is that, somehow, you have been the key for me to understand myself. And
that, more than anything else, already makes everything worth it. Sometimes, I
think I should be bolder. That maybe I should express all of this more clearly, more
directly. But I always lack courage. It's not the fear of what you would think if you
knew — it's the fear of what I would think if you knew. The fear of losing this silent
space, this sacred place where I can idealize you my way. Deep down, the truth is
that I am afraid. Afraid that, if you knew, all of this would be lost. Afraid that what is
beautiful and pure would turn into something more mundane, more concrete,
more full of
expectations. Because, at this moment, there are no expectations. There are no
obligations. There are no rules. Just a silent exchange, a connection
that exists between the empty spaces in our lives.
And I wonder if this is enough. If this love, which is just a
shadow, an idea, an absence, is enough to keep me whole.
Or if, eventually, I will need something more concrete, something real.
But for now, I am content with what I have. This place where you
will never be, but where I can feel your presence in the most intense
way possible. And, as contradictory as it may seem, I know that this is what matters.
The
silence between us, which translates into something deeper than words.
Today, the day dawned clear and bright, but contrary to what I always
expect, it wasn't the light that woke me up. It was a thought, a
simple thought, but one that took over me like a tide. And
this thought made me smile: what if I stopped writing? What if, for a
moment, I set aside the words and just lived what I am feeling?
But I soon realized that it wouldn't be possible. Because writing is not only about
what I want to say. Writing is about what I need to understand. And, as
much as I try to escape from this truth, the act of writing to you —
even without knowing if you will ever read it — has become essential. Not because
you need to hear it, but because, somehow, it allows me to be more myself.
And that is a gift.
Today, when I looked out the window, I realized that the sun was hiding behind
the clouds, as if it were afraid to show its shine. And, in a way, I
felt connected to that image. As if, no matter how much I
tried to hide it, my feeling for you was becoming more visible, stronger, more
real. And, at the same time, it was still an elusive presence, something I can't
touch, but that is always there, waiting for a moment that will never come.
Time has been my ally, but at the same time, my silent enemy.
As the days pass, I notice how the distance between us grows, but not in a way that
makes me feel far from you. On the contrary, the more time passes, the more
you become a part of me.
As if I had kept you in a quiet corner of my mind,
where everything you represent can be projected in silence.
Today, while walking down the street, I noticed that the wind was colder than usual.
Maybe winter is coming, but it wasn't the weather that made me stop for a
moment. It was the thought of you, passing through my mind.
I wondered, for an instant, what you would do if you were there, by my side.
Nothing extraordinary, just your presence. No words, no gestures.
Just the feeling of knowing you exist, and that, somehow,
you also share this silence with me.
And it was in that instant that I realized something that unsettled me. Maybe this is
what truly connects me to you. Not your fame, nor your films or songs, but the
stillness your absence offers me. This space where I can lose myself, where I can
reinvent myself and not have to worry about the eyes of others. Because, with you,
there is no judgment. There are no expectations. There is no need to be someone
different. I can be me, with all my flaws and my fears, and that seems enough. It's
funny to think about it, but maybe silence is the purest form of love. And, in our
case, it is what we have. A silent love, that doesn't demand anything, but that exists
in a way that I can hardly describe. It's a love without hurry. Without pressure.
Without deadlines. Just a feeling that flows, that grows without being seen, but that
becomes as intense as any other type of passion. For a moment, I imagined what it
would be like if you knew about this. If you knew that, somewhere, someone thinks
of you every day, without expecting anything in return. And, in that instant,
something inside me stirred. I wanted you to know, but I didn't want you to. I didn't
want this image, this feeling to dissolve. I didn't want you to become a trivial idea,
something that can be touched, understood, or completely comprehended.
Because, in reality, you will never be that. You will always be a reflection, a
projection of my own feelings. And, as much as that may seem selfish, it is this
essence of you that brings me peace. I don't know if what I feel for you is love. I find
myself asking this almost every day, but I think the real question is: what is love,
after all? The love we feel for those who are far away, who we don't even know if
they know we exist. The love that sustains itself only in the idea that someone,
somewhere, might be exactly what
we need. I will never know the answer to this question, but it doesn't
matter. What matters is what I feel now. And that is enough.
Today, I wrote another page. And, as I finished, I looked at the notebook with
a bittersweet feeling. I don't know if what I'm writing makes sense
to you. I don't know if you will ever understand what these words
really mean. But what I know for sure is that they have been a
foundation for me. Each page, each word, has been a construction
of who I am now. An attempt to understand this growing feeling,
this silent connection we never asked for, but found anyway.
When I looked out the window today, I caught myself thinking about how life follows its
course, even when we don't know exactly what we're doing.
As if the simple act of living were enough, without the
need to understand everything that happens to us. And maybe, in
the end, what we are doing here is just that: living. And, for
some reason, while I live, you occupy a significant space in
my thoughts. Not a space you've requested, but a
space you've conquered, silently, without doing anything but
existing.
This idea, that you are here — not physically, but somehow
still present — comforts me. It allows me to go on without feeling that I am
alone. And, at the same time, it brings me a light sadness.
Because, if I were braver, perhaps I could write more than I'm
writing now. I could say more about what I feel, without fear of
appearing fragile or silly. But, perhaps, the fear of being vulnerable keeps me
here, in this safe space where I can be whole and at the same time
full of uncertainties.
It's curious, but in a way, this uncertainty has been a constant companion.
Not knowing if what I am living is real or imagined allows
me to go on without the pressure of having to prove anything. I can just
be, without expectations, without the need to please or impress. And it is
this freedom, this space of not knowing, that keeps me at peace.
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like if you knew. If you knew what
I write, what I feel. But then, I realize that it doesn't matter.
Because, in some way, this is already enough. To know that, in the silence,
in the space I created for you, I can be who I am without having to
justify myself. I can idealize you in the purest way possible. And this is something
no one else has the power to take away.
Still, it's hard not to want you to know. Not to want to share
this with you, not because I expect anything in return, but because, somehow,
sharing makes everything feel more real. But, at the same time, I ask myself if I would
be
willing to change what I feel.
If I would be willing to face reality in a harder, more
definitive way. Sometimes, the uncertainty, the unknown, is what makes everything
more beautiful.
Today, imagining you once again, I asked myself what it would be like if
you could see everything I've written. But, at the same time, I don't want
you to know. Perhaps the secret I carry is more valuable than
any revealed truth.
Because, in the end, it is our untold story that gives meaning to all of this.
It is the unsaid that makes absence more important than
presence.
CHAPTER 3 – SWEETENING THE SILENC