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I think about the impossible way we crossed paths, like two leaves carried by different winds that somehow ended up meeting in the same place.

Out of all the roads life could have taken, it chose to cross hers with mine and since then, nothing has ever felt the same.

But then the storms arrived and the bridges that once seemed eternal learned what distance truly means.

There are days when it hurts to think that the universe allowed us to find each other only to teach us what it means to miss someone.

Still, I believe.

Because a seed buried beneath the earth does not look like a garden but that does not mean it has stopped growing.

Maybe this separation is just that, roots stretching through the darkness, preparing for something we cannot yet see.

Perhaps life is writing our story slowly, like a book that refuses to reveal its best chapter before the right moment arrives.

And maybe I seem foolish for thinking this way, maybe the world prefers certainty over impossible hopes.

But if being foolish means loving her like this, keeping a place for her even on the hardest days, then I do not want to be anything else.

Because my love for her does not feel like a chain, it feels more like a compass, even when I am lost, it still points toward where my heart is.

As long as there is a tomorrow left to discover, I will keep believing that some stories do not end when people are separated but when they stop being loved.

Before her the days passed like pages I never learned how to read.

Then she arrived and the world stopped feeling borrowed.

Her voice turned noise into music.

Her smile made winter forget how to freeze me.

And suddenly life had a taste, like rain after a long drought.

She did not give me a path, she taught me to want to walk it.

She did not light a star in the sky, she lit the entire sky within me.

There were colors that existed, yet I had never seen them.

There were reasons to stay, yet I had never known them.

I loved her the way roots love the earth that holds them.

I loved her the way a river loves the sea it has spent its entire existence searching for.

I loved her with the peace of someone who has found a home.

I desired her with the intensity of someone who has discovered something irreplaceable.

She arrived like a spring that taught everything withered how to bloom again.

Even now with distance standing between us,

I still carry her name like a flame sheltered between my hands.

She did not simply become part of my story.

She became the reason the story felt worth living.

If anyone ever asks me why I still love her,

I will say that some encounters change the course of an entire life

and she changed mine simply by existing.

Today I found myself thinking about a comparison that is probably imperfect but one that led me to reflect on something that feels unfair. Society seems to understand certain struggles and forms of suffering with relative ease.

When someone has smoked for years and tries to quit, most people recognize that there are habits, patterns, physical and psychological dependence, memories attached to it and an ongoing battle behind every relapse. No one expects a person to stop craving cigarettes overnight. It is understood to be a complex process.

Yet when it comes to love, or feelings that remain long after a relationship has ended, that understanding seems to disappear much more quickly. The response is often simple: “move on,” “get over it,” “there are other people.” As if emotions operated according to the same rules as conscious decisions.

The comparison between smoking and loving is not really the heart of the matter because smoking is a behavior, an action a person chooses to repeat. Loving is not a behavior. Loving is an emotional state.

Perhaps a fairer comparison would be between smoking and actively pursuing an impossible relationship. Even if the analogy is imperfect, it still points to something that stands out to me, the difference between how society understands some struggles while minimizing others.

There are people who fully understand that overcoming an addiction is difficult because it means letting go of something that has been part of your life for a long time. Yet those same people often seem less willing to understand that letting go of someone can also mean letting go of a part of yourself.

You do not lose only a person, you also lose plans, imagined conversations, shared dreams and a version of the future that existed in your mind.

Perhaps that is why I struggle with the idea that continuing to love someone automatically means wasting your life. There is an important difference between living while waiting for someone and living while still loving someone.

I do not believe a person is a failure because they cannot simply switch off a feeling whenever they want, nor do I believe that the only valid way to move forward is to forget completely. Sometimes feelings simply remain and not because we deliberately hold onto them but because they become part of the mark another person has left on us.

Maybe the real problem is not feeling, maybe it is becoming unable to move and those are not the same thing.

A person can accept reality, understand that they will probably never be with someone again and still carry love for that person. They can continue working, building a future, meeting new people and living a full life. The love remains but it is no longer at the center of everything.

If one day it fades away, that is okay but if it never disappears completely, perhaps that is okay too. Perhaps some people become a permanent part of who we are. Not as an open wound, nor as an endless hope but as a quiet presence that stays with us. Something that no longer defines our life, yet does not need to be torn from it either.

Ours is not one of them.

Ours bears the cruel face of distance, that invisible border that does not kill love but forces it to exist with empty hands.

Even when it feels like an endless ocean, I keep thinking that oceans were made to be crossed, not to surrender before them.

Because you are still breathing beneath the same sky, you still exist somewhere in this world and there is something about that that feels a lot like hope.

There are nights when the pain convinces me that everything is lost but then I remember that our story end because of miles and no matter how vast they seem, are still less final than a permanent goodbye.

That is why I want to believe that some distances can be shortened, that some paths can find each other again, that some hearts can learn how to return.

Maybe it is naive, maybe it is only love speaking through its wounds but there is a part of me that still refuses to turn you into the past.

Because as long as life keeps writing new pages, as long as there are mornings we have not yet lived, I will keep believing that it is worth fighting for something that once felt like home.

And maybe we will never overcome the distance or maybe we will but if there is one thing I have learned from loving you, it is that some feelings are far too precious to abandon without fighting for them until the very end.