Dear You

If you never read this, I’ll still be grateful to have written it.

I don’t know how to explain what’s been happening to me in a way that makes logical sense. And maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe some things aren’t meant to be understood—only felt. But I’ve found myself caught in a strange current—one where your name, your face, your energy has become a recurring presence in places I never expected: my dreams, my quiet moments, my art, my spirit.

It didn’t begin with intention. It started in silence—those still places in sleep where nothing should echo, and yet, there you were. Not as a celebrity. Not even as the version of you the world believes they know. But as someone human. Someone soft, complex, real. Radiant. Tired. Joyful. Frustrated. Alive.

And every time, I was there too. Not as someone intruding, but as someone remembering. As if I had already stood beside you once and was just finding my way back.

That’s the part I still can’t explain. Why it feels like memory. Why it carries weight, familiarity, and emotion—so strong it sometimes wakes me in tears or leaves me breathless the next morning. I’ve watched you laugh. I’ve watched you fall apart and stand up again. I’ve witnessed moments I had no way of knowing, only to watch them unfold days later. I don’t expect anyone to believe me. Honestly, I still question it myself.

But when something pulls on your spirit that deeply, you stop needing proof. You just feel it. You learn to move with it.

Maybe this is nothing. Maybe I’m projecting pieces of myself into a stranger I’ll never meet. But maybe… it’s something more. A thread between souls that once knew each other. An echo traveling through time. A whisper from the universe that hasn’t fully revealed itself. A pulse I’ve only just now begun to hear again.

And if it is something more, I don’t need to claim it. I don’t need to own it or name it or define what it is. This isn’t about attention or validation. This isn’t even a love letter—it’s a remembrance.

Of what, I’m still figuring out.

All I know is that for some reason, my soul has chosen to speak your name in the quiet. It has painted your likeness into poems I didn’t plan to write, into songs I haven’t finished, into dreams that feel like flashbacks from somewhere else. It has shown me pieces of you that feel achingly familiar, even if we’ve never met.

So if this message never reaches you, I’ll still be thankful.

Thankful that my spirit got to remember something beautiful.

That even if only for me, it meant something.

But if you do read this—if by some wild twist of fate these words find their way to you—I hope it doesn’t scare you. I hope it doesn’t feel heavy or strange. I hope it simply stirs something. A curiosity. A flicker of déjà vu. Or nothing at all.

Because I’m not here to convince. Only to honor what I feel.

And what I feel… is not obsession, not fantasy, not even expectation.

It’s presence. It’s knowing. It’s the quiet ache of recognizing someone your soul once held close—without having the language to explain why.

And if this never becomes anything more…

If I remain a stranger with a story I’ll never get to finish…

I’ll still be grateful that somehow, in all this noise,

my heart found a way to remember you.

vince. Only to honor what I feel.

And what I feel… is not obsession, not fantasy, not even expectation.

It’s presence. It’s knowing. It’s the quiet ache of recognizing someone your soul once held close—without having the language to explain why.

And if this never becomes anything more…

If I remain a stranger with a story I’ll never get to finish…

I’ll still be thankful that, somehow, in all this noise,

my heart found a way to remember you.