It's me again, your writer.
I don't know how to explain this kind of love but, I'll try. It’s quiet. It’s steady. It lives in the smallest moments. In the letters I write that never reach you. In the way my hands move on their own when I start writing your name. In the way I carry you with me every time I see something beautiful and think, "He would like this.”
It’s not the kind of love that begs to be held. It’s the kind that waits—patiently, silently—because it knows some things can’t be rushed. Because it knows that maybe what we have now is all we’re ever meant to have. I trained my heart to accept that we’re just friends. I tell myself that, over and over, until it feels almost true. But even then, I find myself writing you letters, thinking of gifts I’ll never give, protecting drawings like they mean more than they should—because they do.
You were never just anyone to me.
You made me feel real.
Like I didn’t have to pretend, like I was enough—just as I was.
You taught me how to love myself, and I never told you that, but I hope you somehow knew.
I never expected to meet you, to care this much, and I certainly didn’t expect that even after everything, my heart would still choose you—softly, silently, stubbornly. I’ve learned to live with the ache of loving you from afar. Not because I’m weak, but because I know that love doesn’t always ask for more. Sometimes it just wants to stay.
So here it is—my heart, wrapped in letters and quiet hope, asking for nothing in return but the chance to keep you in my life, in whatever way you can give. Because loving you—genuinely, deeply, even quietly—has been one of the most honest things I’ve ever done.
36Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt9aUEyzwX6
Always here,36Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFjP1ZQQ0U4
—even if only as a friend.
Originally written on May 9th, 2025.
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