For one hundred days, I kept arriving with questions in my hands. What are we? What do you need? Am I too close, too far, too much? I never seemed to know, but I kept showing up.

When you touched me, everything narrowed to the space beneath your hand. My body answered before my mind could protect it. I mistook the warmth of being reached for as proof that you were reaching toward me.

I did not understand then that sometimes you came close to see yourself reflected in my wanting. You needed to feel the pull, the certainty, the way I softened beneath your attention. And I was so grateful for every moment of closeness that I ignored how often I was left standing alone once you knew I was still there.

I carried hope into rooms full of doubt. I offered patience when I was tired, softness when I was hurt, and honesty even when honesty made everything harder. I kept believing that if I stayed gentle enough, we might learn how to hold each other without fear.

In the end, love was not enough to make us understandable to each other.

So I leave with gratitude, unanswered questions, and the pride of knowing I stayed kind while my heart was hurting.

You were intense, beautiful, confusing, and real.