Heart

I don’t remember their voice anymore. It’s strange how something that once felt so close can fade like that. But their hands .. I still remember them clearly.

Quiet, fast, always moving with purpose. Those hands could build things, fix things, hold the world together for people who couldn’t do it themselves. The veins in their arms told stories of long days, too many nights, and dreams that needed to be real. They gave and gave. And I saw it. Even when no one else did.

Their eyes used to search, not for validation, but for pain in others. And when they found it, they didn’t panic. They met it with music. With softness. Their silence could calm what even words couldn’t reach. I remember feeling seen just by how they looked at the world.

And their smile… so small. Just the corners of their lips lifting, barely there. But it meant everything. That quiet curve told me they were happy to be with the people they loved, even if they never said it out loud.

They noticed everything. The way I flinched when things got loud. The way I loved gently.The way I shrank when I didn’t feel enough. They knew.

And now… they’re not okay. They’re down. Hurting. Probably afraid, probably alone. Their body and mind are tired from whatever yesterday took from them. And they’re worried about what comes next. And I can’t do anything. I can’t hold their hand. I can’t show up. I can’t say, “You’re not alone.” I can’t remind them that they matter. I’m not allowed to. I’m supposed to let go. I know this is where our story ends. But it doesn’t stop the pain. It doesn’t stop me from caring so much it physically hurts. It doesn’t stop me from crying over someone who won’t ever know. It doesn’t stop me from loving someone who doesn’t reach back.

And even now… I still can’t hate them. There’s nothing about them I hate. Not even now. Because my love wasn’t shallow. It wasn’t for show. It was real. Deep. Unspoken. And it’s still here; sitting in my chest, screaming quietly.

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Would I Disappear If I Could?

I came across this question:

It lingered.

Not because I’m running from life—but because some parts of my story feel too heavy to keep carrying. There are choices I’ve made, people I’ve loved, and silences I’ve lived with that never quite left me.

Once, I let go of someone I never imagined losing. It wasn’t out of malice - it was the only way I knew how to cope at the time. I was overwhelmed, anxious, and too tangled up inside to explain what was breaking. So I stepped back. Quietly. Fully.

When I tried to return, things had changed. The door I once felt safe behind had closed.

At first, I didn’t understand why.

I thought maybe the past could be softened, that time might have left a little space for me.

But it hadn’t.

And it took me a long time [and a lot of pain] to finally understand that some endings don’t come with invitations to begin again.

But what stayed with me was this: I’ve always been willing to take chances on things that don’t promise success. To invest in people, in ideas, in growth - just for the hope that something meaningful could come from it. I’ve never really had someone match that energy. And maybe that’s the ache I still carry - not being left, but never being truly met.

So would I disappear, start over, and let the past dissolve?

Some days, the idea sounds peaceful.

But I think if I had the chance, I’d still want to bring one thing with me:

The part of me that keeps trying - quietly, stubbornly - despite it all.

Because even if no one remembers me, I’ll remember the effort.

And maybe, one day, that will be enough.

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