I saw your posts. You were wearing white. It is strange how certain colors seem to belong naturally to certain people, as though the fabric itself understands where it is meant to rest. You looked beautiful in the effortless way you always did, the kind of beauty that does not even appear conscious of itself.
And afterward I made the mistake I always make: I continued thinking.
It is dangerous, how quickly the mind can construct entire worlds from a single image. One moment I was merely looking at a photograph, and the next I had already disappeared into all the distances between us. Into the unbearable fact that there is nothing now. No conversation waiting. No possibility quietly forming beneath the silence. Nothing except my own thoughts continuing without permission.
I kept thinking about how desperately I want to speak to you. Not even about anything extraordinary. Just to exist for a moment inside your attention again. To hear you respond naturally, casually, as though this terrible distance had never been created.
But instead I remain here, watching your life from outside it like someone standing beyond the window of a brightly lit house in winter.
And then another thought came, one I try often to avoid because once it arrives it poisons everything afterward: one day someone else will marry you.
Someone else will stand beside you naturally, publicly, without this absurd secrecy of longing. Someone else will hear your ordinary thoughts, receive your messages, celebrate Eid with you, exist beside you in all the small ways I once imagined for myself so instinctively that I did not even realize I was imagining them.
There is a particular cruelty in understanding that life continues distributing happiness without consulting desire. That no amount of longing alters destiny even slightly. I feel angry sometimes, though I do not know at whom the anger should be directed. At life. At fate. At myself for believing too deeply in possibilities that were never truly mine.
I think what hurts most is not even rejection anymore, but exclusion. The realization that I was never moving toward the same future you were. While I was silently building emotional permanence around you, life itself had already placed me outside the story.
And still, despite understanding this intellectually, my heart refuses cooperation.
I feel envious of anyone who gets to be close to you now. Even people who speak to you casually possess something I want with humiliating intensity. Your attention. Your time. The simple right to exist naturally in your presence without fear or distance.
Today I wanted so badly to say “Eid Mubarak” to you that the words remained trapped inside me for hours afterward, searching uselessly for somewhere to go. Such a small sentence. People exchange it casually hundreds of times today without thinking. Yet for me it became impossible, almost sacred in its impossibility.
I realized then how little I truly want from the world now. Not greatness. Not success. Not recognition. Sometimes I think all I want is to matter enough that you would willingly speak to me again.
And there is something humiliating in that level of yearning, because it reduces the vast complexity of existence into one impossible desire.
I miss you with an intensity that no longer feels entirely human to me. It feels architectural, like living inside a structure built from absence itself. Every thought eventually returns to you the way rivers return to the sea. I try distracting myself, reasoning with myself, even mocking my own attachment sometimes, but nothing changes the essential fact: I still want you.
And tonight, because it is Eid and because loneliness becomes sharper on days meant for joy, I find myself hoping absurdly for miracles.
Not realistic things. Not practical reconciliations. Miracles.
A sudden reversal of fate itself.
Something impossible enough that it would justify all this waiting retroactively.
But night continues quietly, indifferent as always. And somewhere far away, you are living a life that moves forward without knowledge of the storm your memory still creates inside me.
Meanwhile I remain here, speaking to you in silence once again, celebrating nothing, carrying longing like a second heartbeat.
Eid Mubarak, from someone who still wishes it could have reached you directly.
