It’s been weeks, and I still can’t stop thinking about you. I try not to, I really do. But you slip into my thoughts anyway—quietly, effortlessly, as if you belong there, as if you’ve taken up permanent residence in the corners of my mind.

I’ve started sharing my words with others, letting them into this fragile, unpolished part of me I’ve always been too afraid to show. They tell me the words are beautiful, that they carry a kind of raw truth that’s hard to find. They say they feel something when they read them, as if the weight of my heart presses through every syllable.

And yet, I can’t help but wonder—would you think the same? Would you see yourself in these lines, or would my words fall short, unable to bridge the space between us? Every phrase I write, every thought, every aching syllable carries your name, even if I never let it touch the page.

I don’t write for their praise. I write because it’s the only way I know how to keep you close. It’s the only way I know how to make sense of this strange, hollow feeling that’s lingered since you’ve been gone.

Sometimes I wonder if you’d even recognize yourself here—if you’d see the light you brought to my days, or if you’d only notice the shadows that remain now that you’ve left. And maybe it doesn’t matter, because the truth is, I’ll keep writing anyway.