The TV was on behind the counter. I wasn't looking at it, just listening to the background
noise as if crossing a dream of no importance. It was just another ordinary afternoon,
one of those when the world seems to move in slow motion, and all you want is silence.
But then, the voice — his voice. My whole body recognized it before my mind accepted
it. The sound infiltrated like an old, familiar, unmistakable perfume. I looked. He was
there. In some random interview, one of those late afternoon ones, speaking with a
contained smile. The host asked shallow, light questions, and he responded with that
calmness of someone who has learned to hide everything he truly feels. And then came
the sentence:
"I am who I am, and I won't change for anyone."
The world kept spinning around, but inside me, everything stopped. I wasn't a fan. I
never was. I never followed him on screens or in magazines, never dreamed of stages or
behind-the-scenes moments. My love was born in silence, in between the lines, in the
absences. But in that moment, that sentence fell like a stone inside me — sinking
everything that still floated. It wasn't about me. It never was. He was speaking to the
world, but the world didn't matter to me. It was as if he had answered me without
knowing. As if, finally, I could accept what had been written a long time ago: he would
never fit into the love I offered. Not out of arrogance, but by nature. Zean Dean was
made of different stuff. Free, unreachable, intact.
I felt a knot untangle slowly inside my chest. The pain was there, yes, but it wasn't new.
It was an old, familiar pain, one I wore like a worn-out coat on cold days. But now it
didn't demand answers anymore. It didn't require promises. It just existed.
I got up from the chair with the lightness of someone who had already cried all she
could. I paid for the coffee and left, as if leaving not a love, but the idea of it behind. The
street was the same. The wind, the same. But something in me had changed forever. I
had heard what I needed — not from his lips to mine, but from the world inward.
And there, without drama, without visible tears, I knew: I love Zean Dean. I love him with
the most beautiful part of me. And I will continue loving him. Not because I expect
something, but because love is also that — knowing when to stop asking, but still
feeling. He doesn't need to know. He doesn't need to reciprocate. It's enough that it
exists, in me.
And, for the first time, that was enough.
That night, I didn't cry. I also didn't sleep. I lay there looking at the ceiling as if waiting for
an answer from nowhere. And it was there, in the dark, that I understood that love that
doesn't return can still stay. That not being reciprocated doesn't cancel what I felt,
doesn't erase what I lived in silence. I remembered all the times I wrote to him without
saying his name, every time I turned absence into presence with words. All of that was
still real — not because he was there, but because I was. Whole. Even in the pain, even
in the emptiness. There was still beauty in the way I felt. For a long time, I thought love
was about being seen, embraced, reciprocated. Today, I understand that sometimes,
love is accepting that the other belongs to a world where I don't fit. And that doesn't
diminish me. It makes me free. Because love doesn't need to imprison me to be true.
The freedom of loving someone who can't love me back is strangely sweet. It's like
releasing a bird that was never mine, but that I fed with care, every day. And now it flies
— not away from me, but to where it should be. And I stay — not empty, but grateful.
Because I had the chance to feel something so big it couldn't fit into two.
Zean Dean is that: the feeling that taught me to stay, even when everything was leaving.
His absence showed me the presence I needed to have of myself. And, in the end, that
is also love.
That night was like a curtain closing gently after the last act of a play no one saw. I had
found my own rhythm, a rhythm that no longer depended on someone else's gaze, that
didn't care about the world's expectations. And there, in that silence that once
bothered me, I found my strength. It was no longer about chasing a dream that wasn't
mine, but about creating my own path.
The following days passed in a nearly meditative process, where the small things — the
touch of the wind, the sound of the sea, the smell of coffee in the morning — had a
different weight. The world outside kept spinning, but I had learned to slow down. There
was no rush. No urgency. I needed time for myself, to recognize myself, to understand
everything that had happened, and more importantly, to understand what awaited me.
The months went by quietly, but the thought of Zean Dean, of what he represented to
me, persisted. It was no longer an obsession. It was a deep acceptance, a memory of
what was, but, "And now, I was at peace. I no longer sought answers from him, I
didn't care whether he knew or not what I felt. Because now, I knew. I knew that the
beauty of what I had lived wasn't in the reciprocity, but in the simple fact that I had
been true to myself."
I found myself thinking about how love can be so multifaceted. It can be pain, it can be
longing, it can be loss, but it can also be freedom. I no longer loved him because I
wanted him for myself, but because I loved him for the person he helped me become.
He never belonged to me, but he taught me how to belong to myself. And this lesson,
though painful, was the most precious one I had ever received.
I remembered the day I looked at the display window, still touched by the memory of
him, and I realized he was there — in everything I was, in everything I wasn't. I didn't
need him to fit into my plans, my dreams. He had already played his part. And I, finally,
was playing mine. I was no longer a spectator of my own life. I was the protagonist.
Sometimes, I wondered if he still thought of me. If, somewhere, at some point, he too
felt the absence that I felt. But it wasn't a concern that kept me up at night. Because,
deep down, I knew that, even if he never knew, his impact on my life was undeniable.
He touched me in a way no one else had. And that, in itself, was enough.
It was strange to think that, at one point, I had wanted to change the course of my story
so that he would be part of it. Now, I knew that my story was mine, and it didn't depend
on anyone else to be valid. I was enough for myself. And this was the greatest act of love
I could offer myself: the freedom to move forward without looking back, without
carrying the weight of an unreciprocated love as if it were a debt.
The sun began to set on the horizon, painting the sky an orange hue that made me
remember the moments when he and I were together — not physically, but in a subtle
connection that transcended what was visible. I smiled at the sky. Life is made of
encounters and goodbyes. And I was, finally, ready to move on with a light heart,
without haste, without fear.
And when the last ray of sun disappeared behind the mountains, I felt at peace. What I
felt for Zean Dean was a silent, but deep love. I loved him in the purest way I could. But
now, I also loved myself. And that, finally, was enough.
The following days felt like a smooth transition between what was and what could
come. There was no more weight from the unspoken, from what would never be. There
was only the present, with its small, silent joys and little frustrations. I allowed myself to
live without the expectations that once imprisoned me. And for a brief moment, I felt
that maybe true freedom wasn't about forgetting the past, but accepting it fully.
I didn't need to fight the pain anymore. It, which once consumed me, was now just a
part of me. A part that I had learned to embrace, to not fear. The love I felt for him no
longer made me a prisoner. He taught me that love, even when incomplete, is never in
vain. It's not about being reciprocated, but about allowing yourself to feel, about
learning to live with it. Love is a silent language that speaks directly to the soul. It
doesn't need words. And when I realized this, the peace I had been searching for finally
found its place within me.
Sometimes, life offers us moments that challenge us to deconstruct ourselves, to
rewrite our own stories. I had lost myself in something that, deep down, was never
mine. And now, looking back, I realized how essential it had been to get lost in order to
find myself.
Zean Dean was not the reason my life took shape, but a mirror that reflected what I was
truly seeking. It wasn't him, but what he awakened in me: the courage to be myself,
without hiding behind an idealized love. I no longer needed him to be who I am. I was
enough.
I felt, somehow, stronger now. Not because I had overcome something, but because I
had allowed myself to live this love without expectations. Because I had allowed myself
to be human, with my flaws and virtues. What more could I ask from life than this? The
simple fact of being true to my feelings, without trying to control them, without trying to
shape them into something I thought they should be. Love is not made from molds. It is
fluid, imperfect, and therefore, so grand.
In the days when I caught myself thinking of him, I smiled. I smiled because, finally, I
could look at him and understand that he was a part of me. Not in a possessive or
selfish way, but as a reminder that, by loving him, I learned to love myself. The love he
awakened in me was, above all, a lesson about myself. He showed me that, in order to
love someone, you must first love yourself, accept yourself, and understand that love
doesn't ask for anything in return. It is, in itself, a gift.
One night, as I looked at the stars, I found myself reflecting on what would have
become of me if I had never crossed paths with him. And the answer came to me with
the same softness with which the wind touches the leaves of trees: I would be the
same. I would always be the same, because the essence of who I am doesn't depend
on anyone else. Zean Dean was an important part of my story, but he didn't define it. I
define myself. I am the author of my narrative, and now, more than ever, I knew that.
That night, as I lay down, I felt that I was finally ready to face whatever came. No longer
with the anguish of what wasn't, but with the serenity of someone who accepts what is.
Love can be eternal, but that doesn't mean it has to be lived in just one way. Love is
plural, it adapts, it transforms. And I was finally ready to live my love for Zean Dean
without expecting it to be reciprocated. Reciprocity is not what validates love. The truth
of love is what it awakens in us. And I had found that truth.
The days continued to stretch out, like pages of a book still blank, waiting for new
chapters. I filled them with the simplicity of everyday moments: conversations with
friends, the small pleasures of each day, and, sometimes, the silences that, although
solitary, were far from being empty. There was peace in them, as if time itself had
learned to respect me. I no longer searched for answers, and that, in itself, brought me
a sense of tranquility.
somehow, was the key to everything. Suddenly, what seemed like an endless search for
something or someone, became the acceptance of what was already within me.
Zean Dean continued to live in those little corners of my mind, but not as a painful
absence. Not anymore. He was a silent presence, like the wind that passes without
making noise, but leaves its mark. I no longer questioned his importance in my life. He
had already given me what I needed: the mirror that showed me what I didn't know
existed within myself. And that was enough.
I wrote to him, as I had always done, but now the words had a different lightness.
Before, they carried an urgency, a need to be heard, to be understood. Today, they
flowed like a calm river flowing toward the sea, without haste, without anxiety. I wrote
because I needed to, but no longer to expect something in return. No longer for him to
see, but for me to see myself in the words.
I had learned that love didn't need to be reciprocated to be genuine.
Sometimes, when looking at the paper and seeing my words carefully written, I
wondered if he would ever understand how much he had been important to my
transformation. But the answer never came. And that was okay. Because, deep down, I
already knew that he would never need to know. What mattered was that I knew. And I
knew, fully and calmly, that this love had given me something I could never have found
anywhere else. It gave me myself.
One night, after finishing yet another letter to him, I paused for a moment. The clock
marked the hour, and I noticed how time seemed kinder now. There was no hurry in me,
there was no rush for anything. What once seemed like emptiness, now was simply a
deep peace. I allowed myself to be. I allowed myself to feel.
"I love you, Zean Dean. Not because of you, but for everything you taught me. Not
because you need to know this, but because I needed to learn to be whole without you.
And now, with the peace I have so longed for, I walk my path."
And that's how I wrote, no longer in search of a response, but in acceptance of what
already was. A serene acceptance, which did not deny love, but freed it. I no longer
needed him to see my words. I no longer needed him to know about me. I already knew
enough about myself.
Zean Dean remained a part of me, but not as the reason for my happiness. He was a part
of my story, a story I was now writing myself. And that story was about freedom, about
love, about becoming who you are, without depending on anyone else to validate it.
I had found peace, not in the absence of love, but in the acceptance that love, no
matter how intense, didn't have to be perfect. It was, only, a reflection of what is inside
of me. And that was enough.
The morning breeze came through the open window, carrying with it the softness of
spring beginning to spread through the city. Each day seemed like a discreet but
transformative renewal. I woke up, breathed deeply, and felt a lightness that had
previously escaped me. It was as if, little by little, the broken pieces of me were
rearranging, not to form something new, but to form something more whole.
I still wrote to him. The pen moved gently over the paper, as if my words were a
reflection of my soul, and not just an attempt to express something ineffable. I didn't
expect answers, I didn't expect recognition. I wrote because, somehow, it kept me
alive. Not for him, but for myself. The words were mine, but carried with them the
essence of something greater — a love that was more than simple affection. It was an
invisible connection that transcends the physical, the tangible. I loved him as if loving
were simply a natural part of the process of being who I am.
And, paradoxically, as I wrote about him, I found myself more and more at peace. I had
finally understood that true love is not built on expectations, but on accepting the other
as they are — and, more importantly, accepting yourself, who you have become along
the way.
Each new day, I felt more comfortable with the idea that love doesn't need to be
possessive. It doesn't need to be a demand. It simply is. And I no longer cared if Zean
Dean knew what I felt. I didn't need external recognition to validate what I felt internally.
I was enough for myself. And that, more than anything, gave me a sense of freedom.
I sat at my desk, as I always did at the end of the day, and looked at the letters still to be
written. Sometimes, the words flowed easily. Other times, they got stuck at the tip of the
pen, resisting to come out. But that was okay. There was no rush. There was no rush for
anything anymore. I wrote because I felt it was an extension of myself, a reflection of
what, until then, I hadn't been able to understand.
"I don't know what the future holds for us, Zean, but I don't expect anything from it
anymore. I found something in myself that I never knew existed. I found myself. And, in
doing so, I found peace. Maybe what was missing wasn't you, but me. I love you, but
now, this love no longer hurts me. It is simply a part of me, that lives in silence, without
needing to be heard."
Silence has always been my most faithful companion. It didn't demand explanations, it
didn't require reciprocity. Silence taught me to listen to what was beyond words, what
was beyond the gaze. I no longer felt his absence as I once did. Instead, I felt, now, the
constant presence of something deeper, something I now knew was inside of me, and
always had been.
At that moment, I realized that the love for Zean Dean, that love that once seemed so
grand and unattainable, was now just a soft memory, a breeze that passed without
interrupting the calm. Love no longer consumed me. It no longer dominated me, it
didn't define me. It simply existed, like a musical note that softly echoes within, never
completely disappearing.
It was what I needed to understand. Love was not a prison. It was a release. It freed me,
more than anything else. It freed me from the relentless search for something I already
possessed within me. It freed me.
the idea that I needed something more, someone more, to be complete. I was already
whole. I was already enough.
And in understanding this, I felt lighter than ever. It was as if a great stone had been
lifted from my chest. I no longer needed promises, dreams, or hopes for something that
could not be. I had the present, the now, and that was all I needed. I accepted myself. I
loved myself. And, in doing so, I realized that the love for Zean Dean, even without being
returned, never needed to be perfect. It was just a reflection of what I already felt for
myself: a tranquil, deep acceptance that requires nothing more but continues to live,
silently and constantly. He didn't need to know. I knew. And that was enough.
I used to think that love only had value if it was shared. That the beauty of a feeling only
materialized when it was reciprocated, when the other looked into your eyes and, in
some way, said they felt the same. But, as the days passed, I began to realize that the
true beauty of love is not in reciprocity. It lies in how it transforms us, how it teaches us
to be more whole, to accept our own imperfections. I didn't need a response. Not
anymore. What I needed was to continue being who I am, regardless of who was by my
side.
The act of writing became something more than just a form of expression. It was almost
like a meditation, a direct connection to what was within me, something I had never
known how to touch before. Those words, which once came with such a need to be
heard, now flowed naturally. I no longer wrote for anyone. I wrote for myself, to maintain
contact with my own soul.
And still, there was a comfort in writing to him, even knowing he would never read it. In
some way, that was still part of the process. It was a way to honor what had been,
without lamenting what could never be. It was a way to give my heart a place where it
could dwell with the freedom of not being conditioned by anything external. I loved him,
but that love no longer possessed me. I loved him because he allowed me to learn how
to love myself.
I allowed myself the freedom to be happy alone, to look at the stars and think that,
maybe, their light was speaking to me. And even knowing they were just distant lights, I
accepted them with the same ease with which I accepted the love for Zean. It didn't
need to be returned for it to be real. It was real because I felt it. And that, in itself, was
enough.
Some nights, I caught myself dreaming, not of him, but of everything that love had
taught me. I dreamed of the places I still wanted to visit, the words I still had to write,
the person I was becoming. Zean Dean continued to be part of my story, but now he
was lighter, more distant, more... mine. I had taken away the burden of him being my
salvation. He wasn't my savior. He was just a reflection of what I needed to understand
about myself. And in understanding that, I freed myself.
I freed myself from fear, insecurity, the idea that love needs something in return. Love
only needs to exist. It needs to be, without conditions, without explanations. I no longer
had urgency. Time became my ally, not my enemy. There was no longer an expectation
that something would happen. I was already whole. I was already complete.
And so, in silence, I began building a new reality for myself. It wasn't a reality without
love, but a reality where love wasn't an anchor, but a gentle breeze pushing me forward. I
no longer looked back. I moved forward, eyes set on the future, but carrying Zean Dean in
my heart, not as pain, but as a peaceful memory that teaches me to be who I am.
Sometimes, as I lay down to sleep, I think about how life unfolds, about how everything
is imperfect, but at the same time, perfectly beautiful. How things happen when they
need to happen, and not when we expect them to. I learned that happiness is not found
in promises, nor in encounters. It is found in the acceptance of who we are, in the
peace of being whole with what we have.
And, while the world continues to spin outside, I know that, in some way, Zean Dean is
still with me. Not because he gave me something. But because, by giving me the
chance to love him, he gave me the chance to find myself. And in finding myself, I found
what I had always been looking for: the freedom to be myself, without expectations,
without urgency, just living. And this, as simple as it may seem, is the greatest
happiness I could ever achieve.
Sometimes, as I lay down to sleep, I think about how life unfolds, about how everything
is imperfect, but at the same time, perfectly beautiful. How things happen when they
need to happen, and not when we expect them to. I learned that happiness is not found
in promises, nor in encounters. It is found in the acceptance of who we are, in the
peace of being whole with what we have.
And, while the world continues to spin outside, I know that, in some way, Zean Dean is
still with me. Not because he gave me something. But because, by giving me the
chance to love him, he gave me the chance to find myself. And in finding myself, I found
what I had always been looking for: the freedom to be myself, without expectations,
without urgency, just living. And this, as simple as it may seem, is the greatest
happiness I could ever achieve.
Now, when I sit down to write, I no longer seek answers. I no longer expect words back,
nor gestures that may validate me. I write because, even knowing he will never read
these words, there is still something in me that can't stop. Not so he knows, but so I
know that I can still feel. I can still love. "I love you, Zean Dean," I write once again,
without urgency, without sensing an end. And this phrase, which once carried the
weight of waiting, now is just an expression of what's inside me — something that
doesn't need to be returned. It just exists. And this, finally, fills me in a way I never
imagined it could.
I found myself again. I found myself in the love I felt for you, a love that led me to
understand myself more deeply than I ever imagined.
It is possible. That's why I keep writing, and I will continue to write to you. Not because I
expect anything in return, but because, by writing to you, I reconnect with the part of
myself that was lost. By writing, I find myself again, and thus, the cycle continues.
And so, with the words flowing, I carry on. Not for him. But for myself. As a silent
reminder that, even when loves don't materialize the way we imagine, they still shape
us, teach us, and make us more whole. And, for the last time, I close my eyes, smile at
who I am, and move on. No more expectations, no more questions. Just living and
writing, with the love I learned to cultivate inside of me.