Not physically, not with my eyes, but with my heart. I saw you in my own steps, in the
way I moved through the city, trying not to lose myself. And I realized that you have been
this for me: the starting point, the direction I never needed to question. You guide me
wherever I go, even without knowing you do. And this is the beauty of what we feel, isn't
it? It doesn't need to be said, or explained. It just needs to be.
It's funny how life, despite changing, keeps leading us back to the same places. I went
to that café where we used to go, a long time ago. The smell of coffee was still there, the
same. The chairs were still the same, with the same scratches on the backrest. And, for
a moment, I found myself sitting, exactly as I did last time, waiting for you to appear. But
you didn't. And the strangest thing is that I didn't feel sad. In that instant, I realized that,
although everything had changed, something inside me was still stuck in the same
place, waiting. And this, in a way, brought me a strange peace. A peace that no longer
demands that what I expect to happen. Perhaps the mere fact of waiting was enough.
I should have learned by now, right? I should have understood that life is not made of
returns, meetings, or reconciliations. That life goes on, adapts, veers off course, and,
no matter how much we want it, it doesn't go back. But, sitting in that café, I realized
that, deep down, I'm still waiting. Waiting for something to take me back to that
moment. Waiting for the memory to return the feeling of having been whole in that
instant. Waiting, perhaps, for you to still have something to tell me. Even if it's in
silence.
Night fell without warning. The moon appeared shy, as if it, too, was unsure of what to
do. And I, here, before this window, with words crowding my mind, began to reflect on
what this silence we've been living means. It's not the silence of the end. It's not the
silence of definitive absence. It's an open silence, like the door of a room that still holds
the shadows of those who passed through, but are no longer there. The silence of what
remained, of what persists, but does not reveal itself.
I think about this every night as I write. What is this silence? And why has it been so
familiar to us? Could it be a sign that, in some way, we are still here? Because, even in
the absence of words, even in the distance between us, something persists. Something
that may be stronger than any word. Perhaps this is it, in the end: a shared stillness. It
doesn't require action. It doesn't need a response. It just needs to exist. And, deep
down, that's enough for me.
Today, when I looked at the sky, I felt something different. Not longing, not lack. But
acceptance. The fact that, even though the universe seems to separate us, there is
something that never fades. What we have is not measured in time, nor in proximity.
What we have is made of moments, of small gestures that stay inside us and never
disappear. They stay there, like underground rivers that shape the earth without us
being able to see them. And, at some point, these rivers converge. They meet, but not in
a physical space. They meet in a memory, in a feeling, in a quiet peace. I know that, in
some way, you feel this too. Even from afar. Even invisibly.
Life goes on, as it always does. And I go on too. But there's something unchanging in all
of this. Something that cannot be touched, but can be felt. And that, in some way, fills
me. It's not an emptiness. It's not a waiting. It's a presence that accompanies me, that
makes me who I am. And, in some way, that is enough to keep me moving. I'm no longer
looking for explanations. I'm no longer waiting for you to come. But, if you do, you will
be welcome. Like the moon that shows up from time to time, not to shine, but to keep
company.
You know, Zean, there's a peace in absence that I didn't understand until now. I always
thought that, to feel something, the other person had to be present. That love had to be
translated into gestures, meetings, responses. But now I see that absence has its own
meaning. It has weight.
...that is not seen, but felt. It brings with it the tranquility that nothing needs to be
forced. Nothing needs to be more than it is.
And perhaps, because of this, our story is more beautiful this way: not because it was
lived in a conventional way, but because it still exists in the space between us, where
words don't reach and gestures aren't missed. There is poetry in all of this. A poetry that
can only be understood by those who have been through the same silence, the same
waiting. And, if I knew something deeper than this, perhaps I would tell you. But, for
now, I just write to you. Because, in the end, writing is the only way I have to keep you
close. And, as long as I write, you will be here.
The day began cloudy, and there was something melancholic in the breeze that entered
through the window. It wasn't a strong wind, but soft, almost like a whisper. This, in
some way, made me think about how you and I have always been made of small
gestures, small silences, small memories that, little by little, turn into something
immense, without us noticing. When I look at the horizon, I see all that was never said
between us. It's not an emptiness. It's not a lack. It's the absence of what could have
been, but never needed to be. And it is in this absence that we find our truth. No matter
the time, no matter the distance. What unites us is hidden in the spaces between the
lines, in what was never said and never needed to be.
Today, as I walked down the street, I passed by a small flower shop and saw a bouquet
of red flowers, the ones we used to see when we were younger, back when the world
seemed simpler, more immediate. I've never been one to believe in grand gestures, but
these small moments, these little touches of life, they remind me of you in a way that
words will never be able to. I don't care that time has passed, that the paths have
veered off, because these moments remain unchanged. They are like the roots of trees,
which remain firm, even when the leaves fall. And, deep down, I know that, in some
way, you are still here, planted inside of me. Not as longing, but as a silent memory that
sustains me.
There is something deep and unsettling in the way time curves over us. It passes, but
not the way we expect. Not the way we were taught to expect. Today, the afternoon fell
without me realizing, as if the sunlight had dissipated gradually, without warning. There
was no rush. There was no desire for the day to hurry. The feeling that time doesn't need
to be measured brought me a certain peace. As if I could simply exist in this rhythm,
without needing anything to happen.
I sat once again, alone, in a park. There was no one around. The trees stood still, the
leaves falling gently, as if the world was on pause, waiting for something. I didn't know
what it was, nor did I feel the need to know. And it was in that moment that, once again,
you came to my mind, but not as a physical person, not as a concrete being. You came
as a vague idea, as a feeling that transcends understanding. There is no explanation for
this. There is only the knowing that, somewhere, you are more than I can comprehend.
And perhaps that's what connects us, this unspoken idea, this something that exists
only in what is not expressed.
I'm in no rush. I don't want things to be revealed too quickly. There's beauty in the
mystery, in the uncertainty. And perhaps this is our secret: a secret that will never be
fully revealed. Not because of a lack of will, but because it doesn't need to be. What we
feel, what existed between us, will always be greater than any explanation. And, in
some way, that gives me peace.
Today, the sky was clear. And somehow, I felt lighter. Not that the absence of you has
become easier. Not that the longing has diminished. But something inside me calmed
down. As if I had found acceptance for what we were and what we are. Life goes on,
time passes, but none of that diminishes what has already existed. I know that, in some
way, you are a part of me. Not as an attachment, but as a mark. And that, as simple as it
may seem, is what keeps me whole.
I am no longer afraid of losing you. Not because I have stopped feeling.
Not because I have stopped wanting. But because, deep down, I know you
have already been part of something eternal. And what is eternal cannot be lost. It
doesn't fade away. It simply is, without demanding explanations, without depending on
time. What I lived with you will stay with me, and that is enough.
I have never been good with goodbyes. There is something in them that scares me, a
feeling that we are leaving something irreplaceable behind, something we can no longer
touch. But, deep down, I know that goodbyes are never final. Perhaps they are just a
transition, a passage of something we can no longer comprehend the same way. And
that's why, over time, I have learned to let go of what I cannot control. It's not giving up.
It's accepting that what is truly mine will never be lost. The connection we share, no
matter how much time passes or distance widens, cannot be erased. It exists within us,
in something that cannot be described, only felt.
Sometimes, life places us in situations that force us to move forward, even when the
heart insists on staying. As if time were a raging river that sweeps us away, without
giving us space to go back. But I'm not afraid of that. I know that, somehow, life adjusts
itself. And that everything that truly matters will be carried inside us.
No matter where I go, no matter what happens, you will always be in a place within me
that no one can reach. And that gives me strength to continue. Winter came early this year. Not that I was surprised by it, but there's something in the
cold that makes me reflect more deeply. Perhaps it's the silence of the streets, the
emptiness of the frozen mornings, or the way the world seems to slow down when the
snow covers everything. There is a serenity in that, a stillness that reminds me of our
story. It's not something that needs to be rushed or hurried. It's something that unfolds
slowly, with patience, like snow falling without haste, covering everything around it.
There's no movement, no rush. Only the waiting, the certainty that everything has its
time. And, somehow, this time calms me. I don't know if you feel that too. I don't know if, somewhere, you are as aware of our
stillness as I am. But, looking at the cloudy sky, I feel that there is something between
us that cannot be hurried. Something that must be lived with calmness, with respect for
silence. It doesn't need to be said, it doesn't need to be shown. What we have is in what
remains unrevealed. And perhaps that is the purest form of connection.
Sometimes, I wonder why life places us in such strange situations. Why do we feel so
much for someone who will never truly be ours, or for something we can't fully
comprehend? Perhaps the secret of life is exactly this: learning to live with what we
don't know, with what we can't control. Because, in the end, what matters isn't what we
can touch, but what we can feel. And that's what connects me to you, even without
knowing exactly how or why. It's not a logical connection. It's not a physical
connection. It's something that goes beyond, something that hides in the smallest
things, in the tiniest interactions we had. And that is enough to make me believe that,
somehow, we are still connected. And, even if the world has distanced us, I know that you are out there, existing in some
way that I cannot comprehend. And that comforts me. I don't need to understand
everything. I don't need to have all the answers. I only need to believe that there is
something beautiful in not knowing, in not controlling.
Because maybe this is the only truth that really matters: what we feel doesn't need to
be explained. It simply exists. Today, I saw the sea for the first time in many years. The sound of the waves brought
me a feeling of familiarity, as if I had been there before, in some other time. And, looking
at the horizon, I thought about how time and space fold in ways we cannot understand.
The sea, with its vastness, seems like a reflection of what we are: something that
cannot be defined, something that is in constant motion, yet always returns to the same
place. And, in this movement, I realized that perhaps we haven't gone so far after all.
Perhaps we are still in the same place, just changed. The sea never tires of returning to
the shore. It goes and comes, endlessly. And, in a way, so do I. Always returning to what
is essential, even if, apparently, I am heading in opposite directions.
I don't need anything more than that. I don't need explanations, nor clear answers. All I
need to know is that, somehow, you are here, just like the sea is here, always present,
always in motion, but always the same thing. And, looking at the waves, I felt a silent
peace. I didn't need to go anywhere. What I was looking for was there, inside me,
reflected in the vastness of the sea. And I know that you are here too, in the same way.
Sometimes, what we seek is not an answer, but a deep understanding of what already
is. I know that, deep down, we both understand this. We don't need to look for what's
outside. What we need is inside, in the little things we do, in the small choices we
make. What you were to me, and what I was to you, no longer needs to be explained. It
already exists, quiet and intact, in a space between what we say and what we leave
unsaid. And maybe that's the most beautiful thing: that, even without words, without
promises, we were something great.
I keep walking, as always. I don't know where the road will lead me, but I know you will
be a part of every step. I don't need certainty anymore, nor destinations. What matters
is the now, and the now is made of everything we've already lived, of everything that
brought us together. And this, no matter how simple it may seem, is enough. Because,
as long as I write, you will be here. In every word, in every sentence. And that's all I
need.
What is real? What makes me believe that there is something between us, something
that transcends any simple meeting of gazes or exchange of words? Sometimes, I feel
like I'm being moved by something greater than myself, as if I am on an eternal search,
a search that never gives me rest, but also doesn't allow me to give up. The problem is
that, the more I try to understand this feeling, the more it hides from me. Sometimes, I
see the answers on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be spoken, but they don't come. They
stay there, lingering, like something I cannot name. The doubt consumes me, and with it
grows the feeling that, no matter how much I try, I will never be able to understand what
this really means.
And the worst of it all is that you never gave me a clear answer. There was never a "yes" or
"no," there was never a sign telling me, unequivocally, that what I felt was something
mutual. What I have are fragments, pieces of moments when your eyes met mine, your
gestures, your words, as if everything was always about to happen, but never really did.
Sometimes, I wonder if you know, truly know, what's going on inside me. Do you feel the
silent storm that stirs within me every time we are together, even though nothing moves,
even though everything seems calm? Or am I projecting onto you something that never
existed, something I created in my mind to hold me up when loneliness becomes
unbearable?
You never told me anything, never revealed what you feel, and perhaps that's what
keeps me trapped in this endless doubt. Because I can't accept the emptiness. I can't
simply accept that, perhaps, there was never anything real between us. But I also can't
ignore the feeling that something still persists, like an invisible presence, that stays
there, hovering, waiting to be discovered. Am I just fooling myself? Or is there
something more, something you don't know or can't express? The silence, which I've
shared with you so many times, seems to be the only answer I have. And, at the same
time, this silence screams at me, calls me to question what I really know about what I
feel, and about what you feel.
I feel, deep down, that this silence is consuming me. It stretches in directions I cannot
comprehend, and, the more I try to understand it, the more it expands, becoming
infinite. Sometimes, I get lost, walking in circles, trying to find a starting point, a
reference. But, at the same time, I find myself grateful for this silence, because it allows
me to exist in a space that is solely mine, a space where I can give voice to my feelings
without having to share them with anyone.
But is that enough? Is living in silence a way of I no longer fear losing you. Not because I
have stopped feeling. Not because I have stopped wanting. But because, deep down, I
know you have already been part of something eternal. And what is eternal cannot be
lost. It doesn't fade away. It simply is, without requiring explanations, without
depending on time. What I lived with you will stay with me, and that is enough.
I was never good at goodbyes. There's something about them that frightens me, a sense
that we are leaving behind something irretrievable, something we can no longer touch.
But deep down, I know goodbyes are never final. Perhaps they are merely a transition, a
passage from something we can no longer understand in the same way. And that's why,
over time, I've learned to let go of what I cannot control. It's not giving up. It's accepting
that what is truly mine never fades. The connection we share, no matter how much time
passes or how much distance there is, cannot be erased. It exists within us, in
something that cannot be described, only felt.
Sometimes, life puts us in situations that force us to move forward, even when our
hearts insist on staying. As if time were a raging river pulling us along, without leaving
room to turn back. But I'm not afraid of that. I know that somehow, life adjusts. And that
everything that truly matters will be carried within us. No matter where I go, no matter
what happens. You will always be in a place inside me that no one can reach. And that
gives me the strength to carry on.
Winter arrived earlier this year. Not that I was surprised by it, but there's something in
the cold that makes me reflect more deeply. Perhaps it's the silence of the streets, the
emptiness of the frozen mornings, or the way the world seems to slow down when the
snow covers everything. There's serenity in it, a quietness that reminds me of our story.
It's not something that needs to be hurried or rushed. It's something that unfolds
slowly, with patience, like the snow that falls without haste, covering everything around
it. There's no movement, no hurry. Only waiting, the certainty that everything has its
time. And somehow, this time calms me.
I don't know if you feel it too. I don't know if, somewhere, you are as aware of our
stillness as I am. But, looking at the cloudy sky, I feel there is something between us
that cannot be rushed. Something that must be lived with calmness, with respect for
the silence. It doesn't need to be said, it doesn't need to be shown. What we have is in
what is not revealed. And perhaps, that's the purest form of connection.
Sometimes, I wonder why life places us in such strange situations. Why do we feel so
much for someone who may never fully be ours, or for something we cannot fully
comprehend? Perhaps the secret to life is precisely this: learning to live with what we
don't know, with what we cannot control. Because, in the end, what matters is not what
we can touch, but what we can feel. And that is what connects me to you, even though I
don't quite know how or why. It's not a logical connection. It's not a physical
connection. It's something that goes beyond, something that hides in the little things, in
the smallest interactions we had. And that's enough to make me believe that,
somehow, we are still connected.
And even if the world has pulled us apart, I know you are out there, existing in some way
that I cannot comprehend. And that comforts me. I don't need to understand
everything. I don't need to have all the answers. I just need to believe that there is
something beautiful in not knowing, in not controlling. Because maybe this is the only
truth that really matters: what we feel doesn't need to be explained. It simply exists.
Today, I saw the sea for the first time in many years. The sound of the waves brought me
a sense of familiarity, as if I had been there before, in some other time. And, looking at
the horizon, I thought about how time and space fold in ways we cannot understand.
The sea, with its vastness, seems a reflection of who we are: something that cannot be
defined, something that is in constant motion, but always returns to the same place.
And, in this movement, I realized that perhaps we haven't gone that far after all.
Perhaps we are still in the same place, only changed. The sea never grows tired of
returning to the shore. It goes and comes, endlessly. And, in a way, I do too. Always
returning to what is essential, even if, seemingly, I am heading in opposite directions.
I don't need anything more than that. I don't need explanations, nor clear answers. All I
need is to know that, somehow, you are here, just as the sea is here, always present,
always in motion, but always the same. And, as I looked at the waves, I felt a silent
peace. I didn't need to go anywhere. What I was looking for was there, within me,
reflected in the vastness of the sea. And I know that you are here too, in the same way.
Sometimes, what we seek isn't an answer, but a deep understanding of what already is.
I know that, deep down, we both understand that. We don't need to look for what is
outside. What we need is inside, in the little things we do, in the small choices we
make. What you were to me, and what I was to you, no longer needs to be explained. It
already exists, quiet and intact, in a space between what we say and what we keep
silent. And perhaps that is the most beautiful thing: that, even without words, without
promises, we were something great.
I keep walking, as always. I don't know where the path will lead me, but I know you will
be a part of every step. I don't need certainties, nor destinations. What matters is now,
and now is made of everything we've already lived, of everything that united us. And
that, however simple it may seem, is enough. Because, as long as I write, you will be
here. In every word, in every sentence. And that is all I need.
What is real? What makes me believe that there is something between us, something
that transcends any simple exchange of glances or exchange of words? Sometimes, I
feel like I am moved by something greater than myself, as if I were on an eternal quest, a
quest that never gives me rest, but also doesn't allow me to give up. The problem is, the
more I try to understand this feeling, the more it hides from me. Sometimes, I see the
answers on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be said, but they never come. They linger
there, hovering, like something I cannot name. Doubt consumes me, and with it, grows
the feeling that, no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to understand what this
really means.
And the worst of all is that you never gave me a clear answer. There was never a "yes" or
"no," there was never a sign telling me, unequivocally, that what I felt was something
reciprocal. What I have are fragments, pieces of moments when your eyes met mine,
your gestures, your words, as if everything was always about to happen, but never
actually did. Sometimes, I wonder if you really know, truly know, what is going on inside
me. Do you feel the silent storm that stirs inside me every time we're together, even
when nothing moves, even when everything seems calm? Or am I projecting onto you
something that never existed, something I created in my mind to sustain myself when
loneliness becomes unbearable?
You never told me anything, never revealed what you feel, and perhaps that is what
keeps me trapped in this endless doubt. Because I can't accept the emptiness. I can't
just accept that, perhaps, there was never anything real between us. But I also can't
ignore the feeling that something still persists, like an invisible presence, that is there,
lingering, waiting to be discovered. Am I just deceiving myself? Or is there something
more, something you don't know or can't express? The silence, which I've shared with
you so many times, seems to be the only answer I have. And, at the same time, this
silence screams at me, calls me to question what I really know about what I feel, and
what you feel.
I feel, deep down, that this silence is consuming me. It stretches in directions I cannot
comprehend, and the more I try to understand, the more it expands, becoming infinite.
Sometimes, I get lost, walking in circles, trying to find a starting point, a reference. But,
at the same time, I am grateful for this silence, because it allows me to exist in a space
of my own, a space where I can give voice to my feelings without needing to share them
with anyone. But is that enough? Is living in silence a form of love? Or am I just fooling
myself, feeding off something that was never real?
I catch myself then, thinking about what it would be like if you knew what I feel. If you
knew the intensity of this doubt, the pain it causes me. Would it be easier if you just told
me what you think? But, at the same time, I know I couldn't expect that from you. You're
not like me. You don't carry the weight of what I feel with the same intensity. And that
makes me question even more: is the distance between us actually a distance I created
myself? Deep down, is what separates me from you just my own inability to accept
what is really in front of me?
I always imagined that love was something more tangible, more clear. Something that,
when it arrived, would be like a revelation. But, instead, I find myself lost, walking in
circles, searching for a truth that seems to always elude me. And that weakens me. It
makes me feel that I'm searching for something that, in the end, doesn't exist. And if it
doesn't exist, then what is it that holds me to you? What is it that keeps me in a
constant wait, as if there were a promise that was never fulfilled? I'm beginning to
believe that this waiting, this.
I try to be strong. I try to keep up appearances, as if everything is under control, as if I
know what to do, as if I'm not affected by this whirlwind of emotions that crosses me.
But deep down, I know I'm losing control. I know I'm letting myself be consumed by
something that can never be realized. And that makes me question: how long will I keep
up this illusion? How long will I keep waiting for something that will never happen? The
answer, however, is something I no longer know. And that, in itself, scares me more
than anything else.
Sometimes, I see myself in a mirror that never returns the full image of who I am. I try to
find something in myself that explains everything I'm living, but what I find are pieces,
fragments of a woman who no longer knows what she wants, who no longer knows
where she is going. And that makes me even more lost. If I don't know who I am, if I
don't know what I want, how can I know what I feel for you? How can I trust my own
feelings when they are constantly changing, constantly becoming something I don't
recognize?
There are moments when I try to distance myself from all of this, I try to convince myself
that it's better to move on, forget, live my life without looking back. But then, just when
I'm about to leave it all behind, something pulls me back. Something inside me tells me
that there is still something to be discovered, something that is still hidden somewhere,
a truth I haven't yet reached. But does this truth exist? Or am I, deep down, just
deceiving myself, holding on to a hope that will never be fulfilled?
I no longer know what is real. I no longer know what is a simple illusion, and what is a
true feeling. Everything is scrambled inside me, everything is confusing, and I wonder if I
will ever find clarity. But, as doubt grows, there is something inside me that prevents me
from giving up. Something that tells me that, no matter how much I try to deny it, no
matter how much I want to distance myself, you are a part of me, and maybe you
always will be. I can't deny what I feel, I can't deny the intensity of it, but I also can't
ignore the fact that you are so distant, so inaccessible. And with that comes the
question: how long will I keep living like this?
I can't live in limbo. I can't keep floating between what is and what could be, between
what exists and what never existed. I know I need to make a decision, but deep down,
I'm afraid. Afraid to accept the reality that all of this was just my illusion, afraid to admit
that, no matter how much I tried, it will never be possible. The fear of accepting that this
love will never be reciprocated is what keeps me waiting, what keeps me in this state of
uncertainty. And yet, this waiting seems to be the only thing that keeps me moving, the
only thing that gives my life some meaning.
As the days drag on, I realize that my mind never finds rest. The doubt is always there,
like a shadow that stretches, and no matter how much I try to push it away, it deepens
inside me, taking over all my thoughts. Sometimes, I feel like I'm being swallowed by
this doubt, as if it were an invisible force pulling me down, pushing me away from what
could be a simpler, lighter life. But then, I find myself wondering: would that even be
possible? Would it be possible to live without this weight, without this constant
questioning? I don't know. I don't know if I can anymore.
Because what I feel for you is not something I can simply leave behind. It's not
something I can erase, as if it were a mistake or a fleeting desire. It's rooted in me,
deeply, in a way that scares me. It's not just the desire to be with you, it's not just a
momentary attraction. It's something more, something I can't explain, and the more I
try, the further I get from understanding it. This love—if I can even call it that—is like an
open wound, a constant pain that never disappears, but that, in some way, defines me.
I am this pain, I am this emptiness, and everything I do, everything I try, just brings me
back to you. No matter where I go, no matter how much I try to distract myself or move
on, you're always there, present, invisible, like a constant presence in my life.
What intrigues me, and at the same time confuses me deeply, is that you've never been
clear with me. There was never a word from you that gave me the certainty that what I
feel could be reciprocated. And that is terrifying. The silence between us is not just the
absence of words. It's a wall I can't cross, it's an invisible barrier that always rises
whenever I try to approach you in a more genuine way. At times, I find myself wishing for
something that I know will never happen. I dream of a future I can't build, and I stand
there, imagining how it would be, how it would be possible to share something with you
that was never said, that was never confessed.
But this future, this dream, is unreal. It doesn't exist, and no matter how much I want to,
no matter how desperately my heart wants to believe in it, I know it's just a creation of
my mind. I can't live in a world of assumptions and unfounded hopes. And yet,
everything I feel tells me to keep believing. Because if I give up on this, what will be left
of me? What will be left of this person you still represent in my life, even if in a distant
and ethereal way? The truth is, no matter how much I try to push this pain away, it's
mine. It follows me. It has become a part of me. And I don't know anymore if I can or
should let it go.
I find myself reflecting on what love really is. What does it mean to love someone
unconditionally, without expecting anything in return? Is love always an act of
surrender, a submission that will never be rewarded? Or is love, in its essence, simply
the fact of loving, regardless of the response we get in return? Because this is what I'm
living now—a love that will never be reciprocated, a love that maybe was never
possible. And yet, it manifests in all ways. It manifests in the silence, in the gestures not
made, in the words that were never said, and I find myself trying to fill these empty
spaces with something that never existed, but that, somehow, still feels real. The
longing, the lack of something I was never able to reach, continues to haunt me, to
consume me.
Sometimes, I feel like I'm living in an illusion, in a dream that has no end. And this
dream holds me, prevents me from moving forward. Because, while I'm dreaming, I'm
not living in reality. And reality, no matter how difficult it is, no matter how painful it is, is
all I have left. I know I need to wake up. I know I need to face this truth. But, no matter
how much I try, I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to accept that you will
never be mine, that what I feel for you is something that will never find a place in your
life, in your story.
Time, for me, has been a constant reminder of my inability to move forward. Every day
that passes is a reminder that my life is at a standstill, that I'm stagnating, trapped in a
cycle of unfulfilled desires. When I look at you, I see everything I can't have. And this
vision becomes more and more painful. Because every time our gazes meet, every time
our conversations happen, something inside me stirs. Something inside me tells me
that, maybe, I have a chance to be more than I am now. But soon, reality hits me, and I
see myself retreating, pulling away, because I know that this chance will never
materialize. No matter how much I try, no matter how much I wish, you're not within my
reach.
This is what hurts the most: knowing that there's something between us, but not being
able to reach it, touch it, make it real. All I have are memories, fleeting moments that
dissipate in the air, that get lost in time. And I see myself trying to grab these moments,
trying to make them more than they are, trying to give them a greater meaning, an
importance they will never have. But this is a lie. And deep down, I know it. I know I need
to face the truth head-on, I need to understand that there is an end to this waiting, that I
can't stay in this limbo forever. And yet, I am still dragged by it. I am dragged by this
feeling that, maybe, I can change things. Maybe, if I just try a little more, if I wait a little
longer, things will fall into place, and you'll look at me differently. But this is impossible.
I know that. But hope, that damn hope, is what..
...that still keeps me moving, that still makes me get up every day and keep trying. And I
wonder: how long? How long can I keep living like this, tied to something that will never
be mine? And, in the meantime, time passes. I see the days piling up, and with them,
more and more moments when I am lost, when I am waiting for something that I know
will never happen. The pain of not being able to have what I desire becomes
unbearable. And yet, I can't let go. I can't simply erase you from my life, because you
are a part of who I am now. Even if you never respond to me, even if you never see in me
what I see in you, you are here. And I am bound to this, to this image I created of you, to
this love that will never be.
So, what do I do now? How can I move on knowing that, even if I want to, I will never be
able to stop loving you? I have tried, I swear I have tried. I've tried to convince myself
that it's time to give up, that what I feel is something that no longer matters, that it's
better to move on and let this love go. But, no matter how hard I try, it doesn't leave me.
It's a part of me, a part I can no longer ignore. And maybe that's the most painful part:
the acceptance that what I feel for you will never disappear, will never be erased, even if
I want it with all my strength. Because, deep down, I know that the only thing I can do is move on, live my life, and learn to live with it.