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.