The Idea of You
Sometimes, in the quiet moments of the day, the feeling of missing you catches me. It's like a soft ache that's so familiar I almost forget it's a stranger. Because what I miss isn't you. I miss a reflection, an echo that you once set off inside me.
In my memory, you've become an empty stage. A place where I can act out my unfulfilled desires, my sadness, and my dreams. The real person you are would probably be an unwanted noise in this carefully staged performance.
It's an irony so delicate it almost hurts. I long for you, even though I know I don't truly want you. Because your closeness would destroy the enigma you are to me. And that's exactly the mystery of this kind of longing: It's a love for what isn't, for what could be, but never will be.
I miss an idea that, in my imagination, was the perfect answer to a question I never asked myself.
