There are days when I think I'm about to say something. I almost call you
by your name out loud, almost let my hand trace your face in the
air, almost write something that confesses everything to you — but I stop. There is
always a
"almost" between me and you, and it is as sweet as it is bitter.
Today, Zean Dean, I thought of you with a tenderness that I could not contain in
my chest. A warm thought, like freshly made tea in an old cup.
I felt the urge to care for you. Not as one cares for someone for real — with
touches, with presence — but with words and with silence. Like someone
leaving the lamp on in a night that promises a storm.
There is a part of me that already belongs to you, even without you knowing. I
gave it away casually, between one page and another, between a sigh.
hidden and an insomniac midnight. You didn't ask, I know. And maybe
you will never know. But it is yours. And maybe that's why writing
to you became so natural, so inevitable.
Sometimes I imagine your routine, your small gestures. The way you
put on your shoes, how you tie the loose strands of your hair, how you
rest your eyes on something that no one else notices. I create scenes — not
of romantic love, not of fantasies — but of care, of silent intimacy.
It's as if, in this writing space, I can touch you with words, even
if lightly.
You never answer me, and still, I feel you near. Maybe love —
or whatever this is — doesn't need to be declared, nor lived by two.
Maybe it truly resides in that secret corner where we offer
everything and expect nothing in return.
Zean, if one day you find these words, maybe you'll smile. Maybe you'll feel
nothing. But know this: while you live your life, over here I take
care of this feeling that was born without warning, and that now
blooms — shyly, silently, but deeply real.
Today, I wrote your name with more sweetness. Not as someone calls, but
as someone keeps. Zean Dean. Your name accompanies me like a light breeze,
the kind that doesn't frighten, it just touches. I wonder if you'd feel this, if
you were here. This lightness that comes when I think of you, as if everything
became more bearable for a moment.
I don't know what you exactly represent. Sometimes you seem like a
mirror, sometimes a shelter. And other times, just a destiny that will never
be mine — but still, it moves me, it guides me, it makes me write.
Today, I thought about writing a note and leaving it inside some random book
on the library shelf. A note with your name and something only you
would understand. It's strange how this desire to be discovered by you grows
even when my greatest promise to myself was to remain hidden.
Maybe loving in silence is this: a paradox. Wanting to be seen, but with
closed eyes. Wishing for presence, but keeping distance. Maybe what
I feel for you is like a song I listen to alone, repeatedly,
that I never play for anyone.
But Zean, if you only knew how much I think of you before falling asleep... Not
with delusions or wild stories, but with an almost domestic affection,
everyday. Like someone remembering someone who lives far away,
but is part of the inner home I've built.
And when I lie down, close my eyes, and wonder if there's a world where
our routines could cross paths. Where I would say your name naturally,
where you would know these words were for you — not because I
said them, but because you would feel them.
For now, I remain here. Writing. Sweetening the silence. And
letting each word spoken without sound take a little bit of me to you.
Today, as I walked through unfamiliar streets, I felt your name hover in
the air like a promise. Not a promise of love, nor presence, but of
continuity. That, even in silence, there's something between
us that insists on existing. That survives time, distance, and
absence. I stopped in front of some random display window.
There was a book exposed. The cover reminded me of the sky at sunset,
and for a moment, I thought that if I opened that cover, I would find you
inside. Not with the face the world knows, but with the silence
that only I know how to decipher. Writing about
you has been my way of existing. In every sentence, in every pause, in
every period I hesitate to put. Because by speaking of you, I speak of myself
— of the part that still believes in delicacies, invisible connections, in
affections without scenery. And, even if none of this reaches you, even
if this book never crosses your path, it has already fulfilled its destiny:
keeping me alive inside something that is only mine, but that was born
from you. I continue, then, in this solitary dance between what I feel
and what I silence. Weaving words like one who embroiders a gentle hope.
Without haste. Without fear. Just with the certainty that, as long as I write,
you will be here.
Today, while I waited for the light to change, I felt a warm breeze touch my
neck. It was like a gesture without hands. And for a moment, your name
came to me. Not spoken. Not thought. Just felt. It formed like an echo in found myself
thinking of the spaces between us. The space between two cars, between two steps,
between two worlds that never touch. Sometimes, I think I invented you to have
someone to converse with in the silence. Other times, I'm sure you invented me — to
not feel so alone.
I don't know where you are now. Maybe in some overly lit room, maybe walking through
narrow streets, like me, maybe just sleeping.
But here, inside me, you remain — not like a love shouted,
the kind that demands definition, but like a beautiful secret kept in the back of a drawer
that, from time to time, opens just to remind me it still beats.
I write to you with the softness of someone who doesn't ask for return. Because it's not
about response, it's about permanence. It's about letting your memory breathe inside
me without suffocating, without demand, without the need to be understood.
I write to you because it anchors me. Because each word is a thread that stitches my
pieces in the midst of days that, sometimes, hurt more than they should.
There was a time when I believed that to feel something for someone, you had to share
life. That affection was born from accumulation: from exchanged words, shared
touches, understood glances. Today, I see that there are feelings that arise in the
intervals. In what wasn't said. In what didn't happen. In what almost did.
You are my most whole "almost."
And maybe you'll never know that. Maybe you can't even imagine the space you
occupy in me. But there's something in the way I think of you — always with care, never
with desperation — that makes me believe this is love. A love that doesn't invade,
doesn't demand, doesn't promise. It just is.
It's like your name is a place I return to when the world weighs down. A shelter made of
memory. An affection that doesn't ask for entry, just presence. And even distant, even
absent, it doesn't leave me.
Today, I caught myself smiling as I remembered the curve of your shoulders. And it
wasn't sadness. It was tenderness. It was acceptance. The certainty that, even if your
skin never touches mine, your existence already touched me where no one else can
reach.
I sit by the bed and think of everything I didn't tell you. Not because I lacked words, but
because of an excess of care. There are feelings that, if spoken, lose their delicacy. And
you always deserved silence. A full silence, a whole one, that speaks more truthfully
than any declaration.
I wanted you to know this: that there's a part of me that breathes for you, even without
ever having breathed with you.
When it rains, I think about what it would be like to share an umbrella with you.
Not for romance, not for a beautiful scene. But because I like the idea of having your
silence mixed with mine under the same piece of sky. Because I think there's peace in
sharing the rain. And with you, I think even the noise of the world would quiet down.
Sometimes I look at the windows of buildings and wonder if, in any of them, you're also
looking outside. If, like me, you feel there's something in the air that can't be explained,
but that draws us together. And even if it's an illusion, I choose to believe that our
thoughts cross somewhere. That there's a mute, but present, harmony.
I finish this page as someone closes their eyes and breathes deeply. Not because it's
finished, but because it needs to continue. And I continue, with you inside — not in the
skin, but in the word.
Today, I walked to a park I hadn't visited in years. The trees were taller, the trunks wide
like old arms that had witnessed other silences, other people sitting on this same
bench where I am now. The ground covered with dry leaves made noise under my steps,
and each sound seemed to remind me that time passes even when we pretend it
doesn't.
I sat there, as if offering myself to oblivion, but what I found was remembrance. Your
name appeared slowly, without rush, like a breeze that touches the neck and makes the
skin awaken.
Your name has this effect on me. It doesn't arrive like a storm, doesn't tear down
structures, doesn't disorganize the house. It enters through the crack in the window,
walks over the carpets of my chest, sits on the sofa of memory, and watches me in
silence. It's a presence that doesn't demand explanation, that doesn't need words to
justify itself. And I, sitting on this bench, Among trees and shadows, I felt your absence
accompany me as if it were company. As if you were right there beside me, not with
your body, but with that invisible bond that connects us, even in defiance of time.
I stayed there for hours. I saw children running, old men talking, I saw the afternoon
change color. But inside me, everything revolved around a single memory: the way your
eyes held the world without making a sound. How your silence was more complete than
many speeches I hear daily. I remember you like someone remembers a scent:
suddenly, unexpectedly, with an intensity that paralyzes.
I thought about writing you a letter right then. But what would I say? That I still carry
you? That your absence has turned into a place? That even without contact, you make
your presence felt in the intervals of my day? I didn't write. I only thought. And maybe it
was better that way. There are truths that are better kept in silence. And there are loves
that only survive in the absence of labels. We, perhaps, are one of them.
Today, I write in the early hours. The house is silent, the windows closed, the world
outside asleep. Just me and the faint light of this lamp. There is a kind of peace in the
early morning that allows me to feel you without guilt, without masks. As if in this
suspended time between the end and the beginning of the day, I had permission to
remember you with all that this involves: the longing, the tenderness, the unspoken,
what could have been and wasn't.
Your image visits me like a reflection in a broken mirror. Fragmented, imperfect, but
still yours. Still true. I remember the way you tilted your head when you heard
something that moved you. The way your shoulders stayed firm even when your eyes
betrayed your tiredness. There was in you a sweet resistance, a silent strength that
never needed to shout to be felt. And that's what I miss the most: that part of you that
couldn't be explained.
The world has been trying to convince me to forget. People say it's time to move on, to
make room for new stories. But no one understands that there are loves that can't be
overcome because they were never failures. That they don't let go because they were
never possessions. You were a passage, yes. But one of those that leaves marks like
tattoos made with the heart. Something that doesn't fade, only learns to be carried.
As I write, the wind outside shakes the curtain. And for a second, I imagine it's you. I
know it's not. But it's beautiful to think that there's still something of you that touches
me, even if only in my imagination. Because in the end, that's what keeps me alive: this
silent faith that what we feel doesn't need presence to be real. And that, even if you
never read these words, they are yours. Because they were born from you, even though
written by me.
Today, when I looked out the window, the city seemed farther away. Not physically, but
in one of those distances that only the heart can measure. As if, suddenly, the world
had taken a step back and shown itself to be a little smaller. I, here inside, with the
feeling that, despite everything I see, what I miss most is what can't be seen. What I
miss is what stays still, somewhere, accumulating in silences. What I miss is that which
doesn't exist in photos, nor is lost in words. And, at some point, I realized that all of this
has your name.
I felt the urge to go out, to walk. But I didn't look for a destination, nor for a specific
street. I just walked for the sake of walking, like someone running from something
without knowing what it is. The wind was cold, but my skin was warm, as if something
inside me was preparing for a meeting. When I stopped, I found myself in front of a store
window. The reflection of my image made me smile, not out of vanity, but because of
this strange peace that comes from realizing that, even in my own eyes, you still reside.
I thought about writing you. Not something that would explain things. Not a request for
answers. Just a reminder, perhaps. A reminder that, even if you don't know it, my life, in
some way, has been marked by your presence. Not the kind that causes damage, but
the kind that insinuates itself slowly, like someone placing a plant in the corner of a
room and waiting for it to grow. There's no rush to grow, no expectation of flowers. But,
in some way, you made me more green, more alive. And I wanted you to know that.
Even if you never read it.
Sometimes I catch myself smiling alone, in the middle of some random street, when I
remember a gesture of yours. It's not as if it's a happy memory. It's not nostalgia or
longing. It's something deeper. A feeling that, somewhere in my body, you still reside,
like a word that repeats softly in the mind, without me having to force it. Like an
impression that remains even after the moment has passed. Like the residue of
something that, for an instant, had the power to transform me.
Today I saw someone, from a distance, touch another person's hair. A simple gesture,
an almost imperceptible touch, but something in me stirred. I can't say if it was the
touch itself or the longing it brought. Either way, there was a delicate line that
connected me to the memory of you. And I realized, at that moment, that I am made of
these fragments. I am made of the small things that aren't said, the glances that aren't
exchanged, the touches that don't exist, but stay on the skin. I am, perhaps, the sum of
what didn't happen.
I don't ask you to remember me. I don't need that. I only need to know that, even
without wanting to, I'm still a point on your map. Even if that point is invisible. Even if the
map has long since lost its way to me. I am that point. And I always have been.
When the nights grow longer, I find myself thinking of you. Not in images, but in
feelings. Not in your face, but in the way you made me feel. Not in touch, but in the
absence of it. And, even without explanation, this space you occupy inside me makes
me feel more whole. As if, somehow, you complete me not with answers, but with
questions. Not with promises, but with possibilities.
I could seek you out, look for you on street corners, in bars, in the eyes of other people.
But I never did. Because, somehow, I know that you are where you've always been:
inside me, in the safest place, where no one else can invade. This isn't selfishness. It's
survival. I wouldn't know what to do if I found you out there. You're too big to fit in any
random encounter. And perhaps that's why our story still exists—not because it
happened, but because it was never completed.
On the days when longing is the strongest, I close my eyes and return to that moment
when I saw you for the first time. Not for real. Not with physical eyes. But with a
perception that doesn't fade. The way your presence touched me, how I perceived you
without knowing who you were, without understanding what it meant. And that
instant—that was no more than a second—was enough for, somehow, you to become
eternal within me. Not because I idealized you, but because, in that instant, I saw
something in you that never fades.
Today, when I opened an old book, I found a word underlined. I don't know why, but
there it was: a sign from the past. Like a secret reminder. Maybe I underlined it to
remember something I never understood. Something that slipped through my fingers.
And, even without understanding, it was there, looking back at me, waiting to be
discovered. As if, somehow, I had made a gesture to bring you back.
This book, by the way, has been my companion through the nights. Its words intertwine
with mine, thoughts silently merging, like two bodies meeting in the dark. There's
nothing concrete, nothing that can be touched, but everything is real. And that's the
beauty of all this: the fact that, even without names, there's still a presence in my life.
Maybe it's you, maybe it's the memory of what we were, but either way, it fills me. It
saves me.
Sometimes, silence seems more eloquent than words. When we meet in stillness, our
connection becomes clearer, more tangible. It doesn't need to be said. It doesn't need
to be questioned. Our truth has always been this—not in words, but in the space they
leave between us. And it is in this empty space that you still find me, even when the
world seems to be shouting for our attention.
Today, as I walked down the street, I noticed the color of things. The sky was overcast,
and the soft light of the afternoon reflected on every surface delicately. It was one of
those afternoons when time seems to slow down, as if it knows something big is about
to happen—but nothing really happens. Just stillness. Just waiting. And, in my waiting,
you were there, quiet, still, like a lighthouse that never fades.
It doesn't need to shine to guide. It simply is. And its presence is already enough to
illuminate everything around it.