I met her in 2022.
She arrived like the golden hour—quiet, soft, unnoticed by most, but impossible to forget once you’ve seen her.
I grew fond of her in silence, watching from the shoreline, too afraid to step into her tides. Just when I thought I was ready to swim, I convinced myself she was already someone else’s ocean. So I walked away, pretending the waves never touched me.
But her name never really left me. It echoed quietly in the back of my mind, like a song I didn’t remember adding to my playlist—familiar, persistent, tender.
Then, in January 2025, fate reopened the door.
This time, I stepped in.
She let me in, slowly—like a room still filled with smoke from a fire that wasn’t quite out. She told me she had been burned before. That love, for her, had left scars that still itched in the quiet. That trust was no longer a simple door, but a maze of alarms and memories.
And still, I stayed. Not as her cure, but as someone who simply wanted to walk beside her.
For three beautiful months, we danced between vulnerability and laughter, like two comets whose orbits just happened to cross for a while. Our days were warm, intense, fleeting. Even the silence between us felt like a language.
But in March, she told me what I feared most:
That we couldn’t stay in this constellation.
That she wasn’t ready. That she was still trying to gather the pieces of herself that someone else had shattered.
And I believed her.
Because I could see it in her eyes—the quiet tremble of someone who wants to love, but is still afraid of the fire.
It hurt. Not because I was pushed away, but because I saw the brilliance in her and knew she hadn’t seen it yet.
She is the kind of person the sun would pause for. A mind like a galaxy—vast, thoughtful, quietly spinning. A heart like a lighthouse: still standing, still shining, even after every storm.
I didn’t love her because she was perfect.
I loved her because she was real.
Because her scars didn’t make her less radiant—they made her human. They made her beautiful.
Perhaps we weren’t meant to finish the story we started.
And that’s okay.
I still hope she finds peace in her reflection.
I hope she learns to trust the sound of her own laughter again.
I hope she sees herself the way I did: full of worth, full of light, full of promise.
I hope she shines again.
And keeps shining—
Even if I have to love her from the dark.
find me more in medium https://medium.com/@sourcecodex
0 komentar:
Posting Komentar