Some doors only open when you stop knocking

I lay awake at 12:34 am. I hear the rain outside as the cold, unforgiving wind seeps through my windows, entirely reminding me of the coldness of you.

It’s been a few months since we last talked to each other. As far as everybody’s concerned, we were done. I was done.. with you. I got tired of running around, chasing you wherever you go, like an abandoned pup that doesn’t know where to go— who can’t survive on its own.

I was always there for you, through your ups and downs. I was the one who made an effort to help you with your studies when you were having such a hard time. I was the back you leaned on, the shoulder you cried on, the person you ran to when life threw you back down to rock bottom. I was always there, with you.

So, imagine my surprise when you introduced her to me. You spoke about her like she was the sun. She was the center of your universe; you orbited around her. You always shone your light, at your very best behavior, for her.

While at the same time, I was busy being your moon. I guided you in your darkest moments. I lit up your life when it felt so dim and cold. I shined my brightest light for you, even when I, myself, didn’t feel whole, even when everything felt halved.

To you, I was an afterthought. A second choice. A backup. An option. Always an angel, but never a god, right? And so, by then, I realized I was always meant to be knocking at your door, even when I knew you would never open up for me.

And so I kept knocking, waiting at your dark porch-step. Until I couldn’t anymore, because it was cold, and the wind was unforgiving, and the rain started to warn me about the dangers of unrequited love and heartbreak.

I told myself that day, I was done. I was so done with knocking on people’s doors and waiting and waiting for no one to show up. So I stayed at home and made myself believe that maybe love comes with indubitable pain. Maybe love meant to suffer, to give, to settle, even when you know you’ll never get anything out of it.

To love is to lay down your defenses at a battle where all your opponents aim the gun at you. To love is to lose a piece of yourself every time you choose to forgive instead of protecting your peace.

But everything changed when peace-personified came knocking at my door.

And so, I used to think that love meant fighting for someone, sacrificing, and helping them with their battles. I thought love was chaos and war and bloodshed and grieving and mourning and pushing and pulling. I used to think that love was a battlefield, painted with red, where I am a mere foot soldier to your army. But, him, coming into my life made me believe that love could be something else too.

He came into my life like a cool breeze, not like the cold, unforgiving wind that comes with the wrathful rain, no. He was like a hot coffee on a cold Sunday morning. He was like bathing in flowing rivers on a warm, summer day.

So, if you were the planet, she was the sun, and I was the moon, then he’s the majestic constellations that light up my dark, infinite sky.

He is giving— the kind of person that would give you the last piece of pizza even when he hasn’t eaten all day. He is gentle, like the wind at night, giving comfort to the lonely. He is as pure as the first snow that falls at the start of winter. He is peace— the kind of peace that you feel after successfully fulfilling all of your daily tasks, the kind of peace that understands but never wavers, forgives but never loses itself, the kind of peace you’ll find in the middle of an ordinary, chaotic life.

He treats me like I hold his entire universe in my palm. He acts as if I were his salvation, and so he did not just love me the way I wanted to be loved; he revered me.

And so, the day I stopped knocking at your door, I always told myself yours was and will always be the last door I’d knock in. I was so done with doors, anyway.

I was right.

I never knocked on his door, you know? I didn’t have to, because there he was, waiting for me at his porch, with the lights on.

Maybe that’s what love is, for me. Love came, not knocking on anyone’s door, but waiting, patiently, with the porch light on.