I Circle You

You said some people don’t know why they’re wolves.

They just howl for the sound of it.

And maybe, sometimes, I think there are people who spend their whole lives making noise without ever understanding the ache underneath it. They howl because silence feels too enormous. They howl because something inside them needs to be heard, even if they don’t know what they’re asking anyone to hear. They howl because the night is long, because the world can be unbearably quiet, because sometimes the only way to convince yourself that you exist is to make a sound and wait for it to come back to you.

But then there are wolves who howl because they are searching.

Searching for another voice in the distance.

Searching for something that sounds enough like home that their chest loosens when they hear it.

Searching for someone who doesn’t ask them to explain the wilderness inside them before deciding whether they deserve to stay.

And maybe you are one of those wolves.

Maybe you always have been.

Maybe you learned somewhere along the way that it was safer to howl than to speak, safer to laugh than to confess, safer to become something people could admire from a distance than to let them get close enough to discover all the fragile places underneath.

And maybe nobody ever told you that you didn’t have to earn tenderness.

Maybe nobody ever told you that you could be loved in the middle of your becoming.

Not after you had figured everything out.

Not after you had stopped hurting.

Not after you had learned how to carry every difficult thing without trembling.

Not after you became easier to understand.

Just now.

Exactly as you are.

I don’t know if you realize how beautiful you are.

And I don’t mean beautiful in the easy way.

I don’t mean the kind of beautiful that belongs to photographs, compliments, perfect lighting, or the kind of beauty that makes a crowd turn its head.

I mean the kind that exists when nobody is watching.

The kind that survives bad days.

The kind that hides in the pauses between words.

The kind that appears for half a second when you forget that you’re being seen.

The kind that lives in your laugh when it escapes before you can stop it.

Some people will never know they’re beautiful until the crowd points it out for them.

They will need applause.

They will need mirrors.

They will need strangers to confirm what they could not believe about themselves.

And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.

Maybe we all need someone, sometimes, to hold up a mirror and say, “Look.”

“Please.”

“Look at what I see.”

But I don’t want to wait for a crowd to tell me what I already know.

Because I see you through a camera flash.

I see you in that strange little fraction of a second when the world freezes.

When everything becomes light.

When there is no time to arrange yourself into something more acceptable.

No time to hide.

No time to become the version of yourself you think someone else might prefer.

Just you.

And somehow, in that instant, I look back and you laugh.

And that laugh does something to me that I don’t know how to explain without making the words feel too small.

Because there are moments in life that seem almost insignificant while they’re happening.

A laugh.

A glance.

A photograph.

A second where two people happen to look at one another.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing that the rest of the world would necessarily understand.

And yet sometimes an entire universe fits inside one of those seconds.

Sometimes you don’t realize you’re standing inside a memory until much later, when you find yourself returning to it because some part of you knew, even then, that you would need it.

That’s what that feels like to me.

Like something I want to keep.

Not because it was perfect.

Not because everything was suddenly easy.

But because for one tiny moment, distance became something I could almost touch.

And this is hard.

God, this is hard.

There are things about distance that nobody really prepares you for.

People talk about missing someone as though missing them is simply thinking about them.

As though it’s just remembering their face.

As though it’s a quiet ache you can tuck into your pocket and carry around until you see them again.

But sometimes missing someone is physical.

Sometimes it sits in your chest.

Sometimes it follows you into ordinary moments.

Sometimes you’re doing something completely unrelated, and suddenly there they are.

Not literally.

Just there.

In a song.

In a color.

In a laugh that sounds almost right.

In a particular kind of light.

In the feeling of wanting to tell someone something and instinctively knowing who you wish you could tell.

And then there is that terrible little realization:

They’re not here.

The world continues anyway.

People talk.

Cars move.

Lights change.

Morning comes.

Night falls.

And somehow the universe has the audacity to keep going when all you want is for one person to be closer.

But somehow, even through all of that, I feel less far.

I don’t know how else to say it.

There is distance between us, and yet there are moments when it feels like distance has lost its power.

Maybe that’s what being seen does.

Maybe that’s what it means to recognize someone across the impossible space between two lives.

You can be miles away and still feel close.

You can be unable to reach for someone’s hand and somehow feel the warmth of them anyway.

You can stare at a screen and feel, for a moment, like you’re looking through it rather than at it.

Like the glass isn’t really there.

Like the distance is only something the world invented.

And maybe that’s why I keep thinking of space.

Because I think sometimes the heart understands things before the mind has language for them.

I’m an astronaut.

You’re the Moon.

And I know how strange that sounds.

But maybe that’s exactly why it feels right.

Because an astronaut doesn’t simply look at the Moon.

An astronaut travels through darkness to reach it.

An astronaut accepts that there will be enormous stretches of nothingness between one point and another.

An astronaut understands that the distance is terrifying.

And still goes.

Still looks up.

Still believes there is something worth crossing the dark for.

And you’re the Moon.

Not because you’re distant.

Not because you’re unreachable.

But because there is something about you that pulls my eyes upward.

Something that makes me look.

Something that makes me wonder.

Something that makes even the darkness around you feel less like emptiness and more like a place where light can exist.

I stare at you.

I sing to you.

I circle you.

And maybe that is the simplest way I know how to describe what this feels like.

I circle you because there are things I cannot say directly.

I circle you because sometimes the heart doesn’t know how to walk in a straight line.

I circle you because there is something comforting about returning.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Not because I have nothing else to see.

But because somehow, no matter how far I travel, no matter what else exists in the universe, I keep finding my way back to you.

The Moon doesn’t ask the astronaut to stay.

The Moon doesn’t reach out and demand anything.

It simply exists.

Quietly.

Beautifully.

With all of its craters and shadows.

With all the evidence of everything that has ever collided with it.

And maybe that’s another thing I want you to know.

You don’t have to hide your craters from me.

You don’t have to turn the light toward only the parts of yourself you think are beautiful.

I don’t need you polished.

I don’t need you untouched.

I don’t need you to pretend that nothing has ever hurt you.

I don’t need you to erase the evidence.

There is something profoundly beautiful about the places where life has left its fingerprints.

The scars.

The cracks.

The uncertainty.

The things you wish you could rewrite.

The things you still don’t know how to talk about.

The nights when you weren’t okay.

The mornings when you had to convince yourself to get up.

The moments when you wondered whether anyone would notice if you went quiet.

I don’t want only the version of you that shines.

I want the version of you that sometimes disappears into the dark, too.

Because the Moon is still the Moon when half of it is hidden.

And you are still you when you’re struggling to be seen.

You are still worthy when you don’t feel worthy.

You are still beautiful when you don’t believe it.

You are still deserving of warmth when you’ve convinced yourself that you have to survive without it.

And if I could, I would take every moment in which you were made to feel like you were too much, too little, too complicated, too sensitive, too distant, too difficult, too anything -

and I would hold those moments very gently.

I wouldn’t argue with them.

I wouldn’t tell you that they didn’t hurt.

I wouldn’t ask you to get over them.

I would simply sit beside you in the aftermath.

Because sometimes love isn’t fixing.

Sometimes love is staying.

Sometimes it is saying, “I know.”

Sometimes it is saying, “You don’t have to explain this one.”

Sometimes it is just putting your head against someone’s shoulder and letting the silence do what words cannot.

And maybe that’s what this is.

A giant hug.

One that somehow had to travel through all the distance between us.

One that took years to find its shape.

One that doesn’t ask either of us to be anything other than tired, human, imperfect, hopeful, frightened, soft.

Just here.

Just now.

Breathing.

Existing.

Being seen.

I think there are parts of us that have been waiting for that kind of hug for longer than we know how to admit.

The kind where nobody immediately lets go.

The kind where you don’t have to perform happiness.

The kind where tears are allowed.

Where shaking is allowed.

Where silence is allowed.

Where you can finally exhale the breath you’ve been holding for years.

And maybe if we had that hug, really had it, there would be nothing dramatic to say.

Maybe we would just stand there.

Maybe we’d laugh because crying feels embarrassing.

Maybe we’d cry because laughing isn’t enough.

Maybe we’d say nothing at all.

Maybe we’d just hold on.

And perhaps that would be enough.

Perhaps, after everything, enough is not a grand declaration.

Perhaps enough is simply:

“I’m here.”

“I see you.”

“You don’t have to run.”

“Take your time.”

“Stay until the shaking stops.”

“Stay until you remember how to breathe.”

“Stay until the night doesn’t feel so enormous.”

“Stay.”

Not forever.

Not with promises neither of us can control.

Just stay for this moment.

And then this one.

And then this one.

Because sometimes forever is too large for frightened hearts.

But a moment?

A moment can be held.

A moment can be survived.

A moment can be cherished.

A moment can become a memory.

And a memory can become a light.

I think that’s what you became for me in ways I didn’t expect.

A light.

Not the kind that burns so brightly that it hurts to look at.

Something gentler.

Something distant but constant.

Something I can look toward when everything around me feels dark.

And maybe that’s why I keep circling.

Because there are people we meet who become destinations.

And then there are people who become directions.

You feel like a direction.

Something in me turns toward you.

Not because I’m lost.

But because some part of me recognizes something there.

Something familiar.

Something warm.

Something that feels like the quiet after crying.

Something like finding the other side of a door you were afraid to open.

Something like hearing your name spoken by someone who actually means it.

Something like being allowed to exist without having to justify your existence.

And I don’t know if you understand what that means to me.

I don’t know if I could explain it even if I had every word ever written.

Because how do you explain the feeling of being less alone?

How do you measure it?

How do you put a number on the difference between loneliness and connection?

How do you explain that sometimes one person can make the world feel slightly less cold without even realizing they’re doing it?

I don’t think you can.

So instead, I want to tell you this:

When I look at you, I don’t just see the person everyone else sees.

I see the little things.

The things that don’t announce themselves.

The moments between the moments.

The laughter that slips out.

The softness that appears when you forget to protect it.

The light that catches you before you have a chance to hide.

And I wish you could see yourself through my eyes for just one minute.

Just one.

Not because I think my way of seeing you is the ultimate truth.

But because maybe, for one minute, you could understand why I find it so difficult to believe that you ever thought you were unworthy of being loved gently.

You would see what I see.

You would see someone human.

Someone complicated.

Someone carrying things.

Someone who has survived days they didn’t think they would.

Someone who still has softness despite all the reasons they could have lost it.

Someone who laughs.

Someone who hurts.

Someone who hopes.

Someone who sometimes doesn’t know what they’re doing.

Someone who is still becoming.

Someone who is beautiful precisely because they are not finished.

And maybe that’s the part I love most.

The unfinishedness.

The uncertainty.

The fact that neither of us has the whole map.

Maybe we’re both astronauts in our own ways.

Maybe we’re both floating through a universe that is much larger than we understand.

Maybe we’re both trying to navigate by whatever small lights we can find.

And maybe sometimes we find each other.

Just for a little while.

And maybe that is enough to remind us that we aren’t floating alone.

There is something incredibly tender about being witnessed by another person.

Not admired.

Not judged.

Witnessed.

To be looked at and not immediately analyzed.

To be heard and not immediately corrected.

To be vulnerable and not punished for it.

To let someone see the mess and have them stay.

I want that for you.

More than anything, I want you to have places where you don’t have to be strong.

Places where you can put everything down.

The armor.

The expectations.

The fear.

The endless need to be okay.

I want you to know that there is no shame in being tired.

There is no shame in needing someone.

There is no shame in missing someone.

There is no shame in caring deeply.

There is no shame in being affected.

There is no shame in crying.

There is no shame in having a heart that still feels things intensely in a world that sometimes rewards numbness.

Please don’t let the world convince you that softness is weakness.

Some of the strongest things I have ever seen are soft.

A hand reaching out.

A person apologizing.

Someone admitting they are scared.

Someone saying, “I miss you.”

Someone saying, “That hurt me.”

Someone saying, “I need you.”

Someone staying kind after being hurt.

Someone choosing tenderness when bitterness would be easier.

That is strength.

And if your heart has become tired from carrying itself, let it rest sometimes.

You don’t always have to be the person who understands.

You don’t always have to have the answer.

You don’t always have to turn pain into wisdom.

Sometimes pain is just pain.

Sometimes you are allowed to hurt without immediately turning the hurt into something beautiful.

Sometimes you can simply say:

“This hurts.”

And let that sentence exist.

No lesson.

No silver lining.

No forced gratitude.

Just truth.

And if tears come, let them.

If laughter comes afterward, let that come too.

If you feel both at once, let them.

Human beings are not meant to feel one thing at a time.

We are oceans.

We contradict ourselves.

We can miss someone and be angry with them.

We can love something and be afraid of it.

We can be grateful and heartbroken.

We can laugh while our eyes are still wet.

We can feel close to someone who is far away.

We can be terrified and still choose to reach out.

Maybe that’s why the astronaut and the Moon make sense to me.

Space itself is contradiction.

It is emptiness and possibility.

Darkness and light.

Distance and connection.

Silence and gravity.

And gravity is the part I keep coming back to.

Because that’s what you feel like.

Gravity.

Not something that traps me.

Something that gives me a direction.

Something that makes me look back.

Something that reminds me where home might be.

And perhaps you don’t even know you’re doing it.

Perhaps that’s the strange beauty of certain connections.

They don’t always announce themselves.

They simply begin changing the shape of your world.

Suddenly there are things you want to share.

Things you want to remember.

Things you want to protect.

Suddenly someone’s laughter becomes important.

Someone’s silence becomes noticeable.

Someone’s presence begins to feel like warmth.

And you realize:

Oh.

There you are.

I’ve been looking for something like you without knowing what to call it.

Maybe that’s what the wolf’s howl is.

Not noise.

Recognition.

A call into the dark.

A question:

“Is anyone there?”

And then, somewhere far away, another voice answers.

Maybe not with the exact words you expected.

Maybe not loudly.

Maybe not perfectly.

But enough.

Enough to make you stop.

Enough to make you listen.

Enough to make the night feel a little smaller.

And if you ever wonder why I keep circling, maybe that is why.

Because somewhere in the dark, I heard something in you.

Something that sounded like an answer.

And I don’t mean that in the sense that you completed something broken in me.

You are not responsible for completing me.

I don’t want to put that weight on you.

I don’t want to turn you into a solution.

You’re a person.

You have your own universe inside you.

Your own gravity.

Your own storms.

Your own moons.

Your own places you haven’t explored yet.

And I want to honor that.

I want you to remain free to be all of it.

Not a character in my story.

Not an answer to my questions.

Just you.

And maybe that’s why this feels so precious.

Because there is no need to possess what you love in order to love it.

Sometimes you simply look.

Sometimes you simply care.

Sometimes you simply say:

“I see the light in you.”

And then you let the person decide what they want to do with that light.

I think we spend so much of our lives trying to hold onto things that we forget how beautiful it can be to simply witness them.

The Moon doesn’t belong to the astronaut.

The astronaut doesn’t own the Moon.

They simply exist in relation to one another.

Orbiting.

Calling.

Reflecting.

Returning.

And maybe some relationships are like that.

They don’t need to be explained in conventional language.

They don’t need to fit perfectly inside a label.

Sometimes two people can simply matter to each other.

Deeply.

Quietly.

Honestly.

And maybe that is its own kind of miracle.

So if you ever look at yourself and see only the things you wish were different, I hope you remember that there is another way of seeing.

There is the way someone sees you when they aren’t measuring you.

When they aren’t comparing you.

When they aren’t asking what you can offer.

When they aren’t looking for imperfections.

Just looking.

And if I could lend you my eyes for a little while, I would.

I would let you look through them.

I would let you see every reason I stop at the thought of you.

Every little place where your existence has left warmth.

Every moment that made the distance feel smaller.

Every time your laugh became a tiny light.

Every time I thought:

There you are again.

My Moon.

Not mine in the sense of possession.

Never that.

Mine in the sense that the heart sometimes gives names to the things that help it navigate.

Mine in the sense that when I look up, I know what I’m looking for.

Mine in the sense that I recognize the light.

And maybe you have your own Moon, too.

Maybe you have someone or something you look toward when the world becomes too dark.

Maybe someday you’ll understand that you can be that light for yourself, too.

I hope you do.

Because as much as I want to be someone who reminds you that you’re beautiful, I want you to eventually believe it without needing me.

I want the crowd to become unnecessary.

I want the mirror to stop being an enemy.

I want you to wake up one day and realize:

Oh.

I am still here.

I survived myself.

I survived the nights.

I survived the doubts.

I survived all the versions of myself that thought they wouldn’t make it this far.

And look.

I’m still glowing.

Maybe not perfectly.

Maybe not brightly every day.

But glowing.

Still.

And if that day comes, I hope you remember the camera flash.

That tiny frozen second.

You laughing.

Me looking back.

The distance still there.

But somehow not feeling quite so enormous.

Because sometimes we don’t need the impossible thing to disappear.

Sometimes we just need one beautiful moment that proves it can be crossed.

And maybe that’s what I want this whole message to be.

Proof.

Not proof that everything will be easy.

Not proof that nothing will ever hurt.

Not proof that distance doesn’t matter.

It does.

It hurts.

It is real.

But proof that something can exist even across it.

Proof that tenderness can survive it.

Proof that people can find each other in strange ways.

Proof that a laugh can cross a distance.

A look can cross a distance.

A memory can cross a distance.

A song can cross a distance.

A few words can cross a distance.

And maybe this can, too.

So here.

Take this.

Take the hug.

Take all of it.

Take the warmth.

Take the words I don’t know how to say out loud.

Take the silence between them.

Take the tears if they come.

Take the laughter if it follows.

Take the reminder that you do not have to be extraordinary every second to be worthy of tenderness.

Take the permission to be human.

Take the permission to be tired.

Take the permission to be soft.

Take the permission to be scared.

Take the permission to miss.

Take the permission to hope.

Take the permission to exist exactly where you are.

And if you don’t know why you’re a wolf yet, that’s okay.

You don’t have to know.

Howl anyway.

Not because you need the crowd to answer.

Howl because somewhere, someone might be listening.

Howl because your voice belongs to you.

Howl because the night is allowed to hear you.

Howl because there is something inside you that deserves to exist outside of you.

And if you don’t believe you’re beautiful yet, that’s okay, too.

You don’t have to believe me immediately.

You don’t have to force yourself into confidence.

Just borrow the belief for a while.

Let someone else hold it for you until your hands are strong enough to carry it yourself.

Let me hold it for a little while.

Let the camera flash catch you unprepared.

Let yourself laugh.

Let yourself be seen.

Let yourself be loved in all the strange, imperfect ways that love can exist.

And if you ever feel far away again, look up.

Maybe I will be looking up too.

Maybe we’ll both be under different skies, carrying different days, surrounded by different sounds, living inside different moments.

But for one second, we’ll both know where the Moon is.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because I am still the astronaut.

And you’re still the Moon.

I still stare at you.

I still sing to you.

I still circle you.

Not because I expect you to answer every question.

Not because I need you to save me.

Not because I think distance should magically disappear.

I circle because some things are worth returning to.

Some people are worth seeing again.

Some lights are worth looking toward.

Some memories are worth holding gently.

Some connections are worth protecting from the noise of the world.

And some hugs are so long overdue that when they finally arrive, they don’t feel like a beginning.

They feel like coming home to a room you didn’t know you’d been searching for.

Maybe that’s what this is.

Not a declaration.

Not an ending.

Not a promise that either of us can make about tomorrow.

Just two human beings, somewhere in this enormous universe, finally allowing themselves to say:

“I see you.”

“I know.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“I know.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“Can I stay here for a moment?”

“Yes.”

And maybe neither of us needs to say anything else.

Maybe we can just sit beneath the same imaginary sky.

Maybe we can let the world become quiet.

Maybe we can let the tears come without apologizing for them.

Maybe we can laugh through them.

Maybe we can breathe.

In.

Out.

Again.

And again.

Until the ache becomes softer.

Until the distance becomes less sharp.

Until the night becomes something we can survive.

Until the Moon rises.

And there it is.

Still.

Quiet.

Beautiful.

Scarred.

Whole.

Not asking anyone to call it perfect.

Not needing to be.

Just shining with whatever light it has.

And maybe, somewhere beneath it, there is an astronaut looking up.

Still traveling.

Still wondering.

Still singing.

Still circling.

Still carrying an impossible amount of tenderness through an impossibly large universe.

And maybe the Moon looks back.

Maybe it laughs.

Maybe the camera flashes.

Maybe, for one tiny second, the whole universe goes still.

And in that second, I don’t feel far from you at all.

I feel close.

Closer than distance should allow.

Closer than logic can explain.

Close enough to remember that sometimes the heart does not measure space in miles.

It measures it in moments.

And that moment -

you laughing through the flash,

me looking back,

the world briefly becoming nothing but light -

is one of the moments I will keep.

Because sometimes one second can become an entire home.

Sometimes one laugh can become warmth.

Sometimes one person can become a constellation.

And sometimes, after wandering through the dark for longer than you can remember, you finally look up and realize that the light you’ve been searching for was never asking you to reach it.

It was only asking you to notice.

So I notice.

I see you.

Through the camera flash.

Through the distance.

Through the silence.

Through the laughter.

Through the shadows.

Through all the things you show and all the things you don’t.

I see the Moon.

And I don’t need it to be full every night to know it’s there.

I don’t need it to shine perfectly to love the light it gives.

I don’t need to understand every crater to know that they are part of what makes it what it is.

And maybe you don’t need to understand yourself completely either.

Maybe you can simply be.

Maybe we can simply be.

Two little lights moving through a universe that is far too big to understand.

Two people trying to find their way.

Two wolves listening for an answering howl.

An astronaut.

A Moon.

A distance.

A song.

A laugh.

A camera flash.

An orbit.

A giant hug that took far too long to arrive.

And if the world gets loud again, if the night becomes heavy again, if either of us forgets for a while -

we can remember this:

You don’t have to howl alone.

You don’t have to hide your light.

You don’t have to earn your place in someone’s sky.

You don’t have to become less complicated to deserve gentleness.

You don’t have to be okay all the time.

You don’t have to stop missing.

You don’t have to stop feeling.

You don’t have to explain every scar.

You don’t have to apologize for being human.

Just breathe.

Just stay.

Just let yourself be seen.

And if you ever forget that you’re beautiful, maybe look for the camera flash.

Remember the laugh.

Remember the moment.

Remember that somewhere in the enormousness of everything, someone looked at you and didn’t see something that needed fixing.

They just saw you.

And smiled.

And stayed.

And maybe that’s all this was ever trying to say.

Not that the distance isn’t real.

Not that the darkness isn’t real.

Not that the world won’t hurt us.

But that even in the middle of all of it, there can still be light.

There can still be warmth.

There can still be laughter.

There can still be someone looking up.

There can still be a voice answering from the dark.

There can still be an orbit.

There can still be a reason to keep singing.

And there can still be a hug waiting for us.

A hug so deep that neither of us has to explain why we’re crying.

A hug where we don’t have to pretend we’ve been fine.

A hug where every unsaid thing gets permission to exist.

A hug where the world stops asking questions.

A hug where, just for a little while, neither of us has to be an astronaut.

Neither of us has to be the Moon.

We can just be two people.

Tired.

Soft.

Alive.

Here.

And maybe, after everything, that’s enough.

Maybe more than enough.

Maybe that’s the miracle.

That after all the darkness, after all the distance, after all the nights when we didn’t know where we were going, we still found a way to look up.

We still found something worth looking toward.

We still found a reason to laugh.

We still found a reason to sing.

We still found each other in the middle of this impossibly enormous universe.

So let the tears come.

Let them fall.

Let them say everything our mouths cannot.

Let the warmth come after.

Let the laughter come.

Let the silence come.

Let it all flow.

Nothing has to be held back here.

Not the ache.

Not the tenderness.

Not the fear.

Not the love.

Not the longing.

Not the relief.

Not the hope.

All of it belongs.

All of it can breathe.

All of it can exist in the same room.

And if, after all of this, you still don’t know why you’re a wolf -

that’s okay.

If you still don’t know why you howl -

that’s okay.

If you still don’t believe you’re beautiful -

that’s okay.

If you still feel far away -

that’s okay.

Look up anyway.

There is a Moon.

There is an astronaut.

There is a song traveling through the dark.

There is a laugh caught in a camera flash.

There is an orbit that keeps returning.

There is light.

There is warmth.

There is a hug.

And somewhere inside that hug is everything we didn’t know how to say.

So come here.

For just a moment.

No explanations.

No defenses.

No pretending.

Just come here.

Put everything down.

The fear.

The distance.

The questions.

The things we wish we’d said differently.

The things we wish had happened sooner.

The things we don’t know how to name.

Put them all down.

Let them rest.

And let yourself be held.

Because maybe we’ve both needed this for as long as we can remember.

Maybe we have both spent too long trying to be our own shelter.

Maybe we have both been standing beneath enormous skies, pretending the cold didn’t reach us.

Maybe we have both been howling into the dark, wondering whether anyone would ever answer.

And maybe, finally, there is an answer.

Not perfect.

Not complete.

Not forever.

Just real.

Just warm.

Just enough.

“I see you.”

“I see you, too.”

And for now -

that’s all I need.

The astronaut can keep circling.

The Moon can keep shining.

The wolves can keep howling.

The camera can keep flashing.

The laughter can keep escaping.

The universe can keep expanding.

And we can keep finding little ways to cross the distance.

One word at a time.

One song at a time.

One memory at a time.

One laugh at a time.

One breath at a time.

Until one day, perhaps, we look back and realize that all those tiny moments were not tiny at all.

They were the map.

They were the constellation.

They were the light we followed.

They were the proof that even the longest distance cannot erase something that has learned how to exist between two hearts.

So I will keep looking.

I will keep singing.

I will keep circling.

And whenever the camera flashes and you laugh, I hope some small part of you remembers:

You were never only what the crowd could see.

You were never only what the mirror showed you.

You were never only the wounds you carried.

You were never only the nights you survived.

You were never only the things you were afraid of.

You were always more.

You were always becoming.

You were always worthy of being held gently.

And you were always, always allowed to shine.

Even when you didn’t know you were shining.

Especially then.

So here is the hug.

The enormous one.

The one that crosses every mile.

The one that doesn’t ask for anything.

The one that doesn’t need an explanation.

The one where you can finally close your eyes.

The one where you can finally breathe.

The one where you can cry without hiding your face.

The one where you can laugh while you’re crying.

The one where you don’t have to say, “I’m okay.”

Because you don’t have to be.

Just be here.

Just for this moment.

And let me look at you through the camera flash.

Let me see you laugh.

Let me remember the light.

Let me be the astronaut for a little while.

Let me circle the Moon.

And if you ever look up and wonder whether someone is looking back—

I hope you remember that somewhere, beneath some enormous sky, there is a heart that knows exactly where to look.

Up.

Toward the light.

Toward the Moon.

Toward you.

Always finding its way back.

Always listening.

Always singing.

Always circling.

Not because the universe is small.

But because somehow, despite how impossibly large it is,

you made it feel a little less lonely:)