Rewrite

There is something almost unbearably painful about loving someone when neither of you is confused about the feeling.

That is the kind of heartbreak nobody prepares you for.

Because sometimes the hardest love stories are not the ones where one person doesn’t care.

They are the ones where you both care.

Where you both know.

Where there is no convenient misunderstanding to hide behind, no simple explanation, no clean answer that allows one heart to walk away peacefully.

Sometimes the cruelest distance is not measured in miles.

It is measured in everything standing between two people who would choose each other if the world would simply stop interfering for long enough to let them breathe.

And maybe that is what this is.

Maybe this has never been about wondering whether the feeling exists.

It does.

That is the terrifying part.

It exists in the pauses.

In the looks that last a second too long.

In the conversations that somehow mean more than the words being spoken.

In the things we almost say.

In the moments when we are close enough to feel the possibility of another life, and then something reminds us that possibility and reality are not always the same thing.

You know.

I know.

Maybe we have both known for longer than either of us has wanted to admit.

There is something between us that refuses to disappear simply because it would be easier if it did.

Something stubborn.

Something tender.

Something that keeps finding its way back.

And perhaps that is why this hurts so much.

Because it would be easier if I could tell myself that you don’t feel anything.

It would be easier if I could convince myself that I imagined every moment.

It would be easier if your eyes never softened when you looked at me.

If your voice never changed when you said my name.

If there had never been that strange electricity between us that made ordinary moments feel like they contained entire universes.

It would be easier if you were indifferent.

But you’re not.

And neither am I.

So here we are.

Two people standing on opposite sides of a door neither of us knows how to open.

And sometimes I wonder how many lives we could have lived if fear had not arrived before courage.

How many mornings we might have woken up beside each other.

How many ordinary Tuesdays could have become precious simply because we were sharing them.

How many grocery-store trips.

How many sleepy conversations.

How many arguments over insignificant things.

How many nights spent laughing until neither of us could breathe.

How many quiet mornings where neither of us needed to say anything because being there was enough.

That is the strange thing about longing.

It doesn’t only make you imagine the grand moments.

It makes you ache for the ordinary ones.

I don’t just imagine some perfect cinematic version of us.

I imagine you stealing the blanket.

I imagine us disagreeing about what to eat.

I imagine you being annoyed because I left something somewhere it didn’t belong.

I imagine falling asleep while we were talking.

I imagine knowing the little expressions you make when you’re pretending you’re not upset.

I imagine knowing exactly how you take your coffee.

I imagine recognizing the difference between your tired silence and your angry silence.

I imagine becoming familiar with the person you are when nobody else is watching.

That is what makes this feel real to me.

Not some fantasy of perfection.

The imperfections.

The mundane things.

The ordinary things that become sacred when they belong to someone you love.

I don’t want a flawless story.

I want a real one.

A life where we get to be human together.

A life where we sometimes misunderstand each other and then learn how to communicate.

A life where we occasionally get frustrated and still find our way back to one another.

A life where we don’t have to perform some perfect version of love.

Just something honest.

Something chosen.

Something ours.

And maybe that’s why I struggle when you tell me that circumstances have already decided for us.

Because I understand.

I really do.

I understand the reasons.

I understand the distance.

I understand the timing.

I understand the complications.

I understand every argument against us.

I’ve probably made those arguments against myself a hundred times.

I’ve told myself to be realistic.

I’ve told myself not to hope too much.

I’ve told myself that wanting something does not make it possible.

I’ve told myself that sometimes love isn’t enough.

I’ve told myself that perhaps there are things bigger than what two people feel.

And maybe all of those things are true.

Maybe they are.

But there is another truth I cannot escape.

We are still here.

Still feeling.

Still wondering.

Still looking at a possibility we keep trying to convince ourselves doesn’t exist.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Because my heart does not understand the language of impossibility.

It understands you.

That’s all.

It understands the sound of your voice.

It understands the way you make me feel seen.

It understands the strange peace that appears when we’re together.

It understands why, out of all the people in this enormous world, something in me keeps reaching toward you.

I wish I could explain that rationally.

I wish I could reduce it to logic.

Then maybe I could solve it.

But love is not always a problem waiting for the correct answer.

Sometimes it is simply a truth you carry.

And you are a truth I have been carrying.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Sometimes painfully.

But honestly.

There are nights when I wonder whether I should let go.

Maybe you wonder too.

Maybe we’ve both stood in the darkness asking ourselves whether holding on is brave or foolish.

Maybe we’ve both imagined what would happen if we simply stopped fighting the feeling.

What if we stopped treating our hearts like enemies?

What if we stopped assuming that wanting each other was something we needed to apologize for?

What if, just for a moment, we stopped asking whether the world would approve?

What if we asked each other instead:

What do you want?

Not what is practical.

Not what is expected.

Not what is safest.

Not what would make everybody else comfortable.

What do you want?

And if the honest answer is each other, then maybe we owe ourselves the courage to at least admit it.

I don’t mean reckless promises.

I don’t mean pretending circumstances don’t exist.

I don’t mean closing our eyes to reality.

I mean honesty.

The kind that hurts because it leaves nowhere to hide.

I want you.

Not because you’re perfect.

Not because I think you will magically fix my life.

Not because I need somebody to rescue me.

I want you because something about you reaches a place inside me that very few people ever have.

You make me feel something I cannot fake.

And perhaps the most frightening part is that I don’t want to fake it anymore.

I don’t want to keep pretending this is insignificant.

I don’t want to keep reducing something enormous into something manageable just because admitting its size scares me.

I don’t want to keep saying, “It’s nothing,” when my heart knows it isn’t.

It isn’t nothing.

You are not nothing.

What I feel is not nothing.

Whatever this is between us is not nothing.

And maybe saying that out loud is already a kind of freedom.

Because I spent too long thinking that loving someone meant immediately knowing how the story would end.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe love can be honest without being certain.

Maybe I can say:

I love you.

And still admit:

I don’t know what happens next.

Maybe I can want you without demanding that you promise me forever tonight.

Maybe I can believe in us without pretending the road will be easy.

Maybe courage isn’t certainty.

Maybe courage is saying:

I don’t know where this goes, but I know I don’t want fear making the decision for me.

Because fear has made enough decisions.

Fear has told us when to stay silent.

Fear has told us when to walk away.

Fear has convinced us that wanting something is dangerous.

Fear has whispered:

Don’t get your hopes up.

Don’t say too much.

Don’t care too deeply.

Don’t make yourself vulnerable.

Don’t risk being disappointed.

And maybe fear was trying to protect us.

Maybe it meant well.

But protection can become a prison when it never lets you live.

There comes a moment when you have to decide whether you would rather be safe from heartbreak or open enough to experience something beautiful.

And I don’t know about you, but there is a part of me that is tired of living according to everything that might go wrong.

I want to know what might go right.

I want to know what happens when two people stop running from something real.

I want to know what happens when we choose honesty over fear.

I want to know what happens when we stop asking whether we are allowed to love and start asking what we are willing to do with the love we already have.

Maybe the world will say no.

Maybe it will make things difficult.

Maybe people will have opinions.

Maybe there will be obstacles we cannot simply wish away.

Maybe some things genuinely are beyond our control.

But I don’t want to surrender before we have even tried to understand what is possible.

Because there is a difference between accepting reality and assuming defeat.

There is a difference between wisdom and fear disguised as wisdom.

And sometimes I wonder which one we’ve been calling “reality.”

Maybe the truth is that we have been scared.

Maybe we’ve been scared of what choosing each other would change.

Scared of disappointing people.

Scared of getting hurt.

Scared of making the wrong decision.

Scared that if we finally reach for each other, we might discover that the dream cannot survive contact with reality.

I understand that fear.

I have it too.

But there is another fear.

The fear of someday looking back and wondering:

What if?

What if we had been braver?

What if we had spoken sooner?

What if we had stopped letting circumstances speak for us?

What if we had given ourselves a chance?

What if the life we wanted was never going to arrive on its own?

What if someone had to choose it?

What if that someone was us?

I don’t want to spend my life haunted by questions I was too afraid to ask.

I don’t want to reach some distant future and remember you as the person I loved but never allowed myself to truly love.

I don’t want you to become a beautiful memory that hurts every time I remember what we almost were.

I don’t want “almost” to be the final word between us.

Because almost is such a cruel place to live.

Almost together.

Almost honest.

Almost brave.

Almost ours.

Almost.

Almost.

Almost.

I would rather know.

Even if the answer hurts.

Even if the road is difficult.

Even if we discover that some things cannot be changed.

At least we will have been honest.

At least we will have looked at each other and said:

This mattered.

You mattered.

We mattered.

And perhaps that alone would be worth something.

But secretly, beneath all the reasonable thoughts, there is another part of me.

A younger, more hopeful part.

The part that still believes life is not entirely written.

The part that still believes people can surprise themselves.

The part that still believes circumstances can change.

The part that still believes two people can choose differently from what everyone expected.

That part of me looks at you and wonders:

What if?

What if we wrote something neither of us expected?

What if the future isn’t a road already built?

What if it is something we participate in creating?

What if fate is not a locked door?

What if it is simply every possibility standing in front of us, waiting to see what we will choose?

I don’t know.

Maybe I’m naive.

Maybe I’m romanticizing something complicated.

Maybe I’m afraid of losing you and therefore looking for reasons to stay hopeful.

Maybe.

But even if all of that is true, one thing remains:

I would rather have an honest conversation with you than spend years pretending I never wanted one.

So let me be honest.

I don’t want some distant version of you.

I don’t want a memory.

I don’t want a fantasy.

I want to know you as you are.

I want the real you.

The tired you.

The difficult you.

The stubborn you.

The vulnerable you.

The version of you who doesn’t know what to say.

The version who gets scared.

The version who needs reassurance.

The version who sometimes shuts down.

The version who laughs too loudly.

The version who has wounds you don’t show everyone.

I want to know the person underneath everything.

And I want you to know me too.

Not the edited version.

Not the version that pretends everything is okay.

Not the version that tries to be easy to love.

Me.

The complicated parts.

The frightened parts.

The hopeful parts.

The parts that love too deeply.

The parts that overthink.

The parts that sometimes need to hear, “I’m still here.”

I don’t want us to love representations of one another.

I want us to love people.

Real people.

Because real love isn’t two perfect people floating through a perfect life.

It’s two imperfect people saying:

I see your humanity.

I see mine.

Let’s try anyway.

Let’s be patient.

Let’s communicate.

Let’s forgive.

Let’s learn.

Let’s grow.

Let’s choose each other again tomorrow.

And maybe again after that.

That kind of love doesn’t need stars to align perfectly.

It needs two people willing to reach.

I don’t know whether we can overcome every obstacle.

I don’t know whether every door will open.

I don’t know whether the future will cooperate with our hearts.

But I know this:

I don’t want to surrender the possibility simply because the possibility is difficult.

Some things worth having are difficult.

Some journeys require courage.

Some doors only open after someone knocks one more time.

And maybe we have not reached the end.

Maybe we’re standing at the beginning of the conversation we’ve been avoiding.

Maybe the question isn’t:

Can we guarantee forever?

Maybe the question is:

Can we be honest today?

Can we admit what we feel?

Can we stop pretending?

Can we listen to each other?

Can we decide what is actually possible instead of letting fear decide for us?

Can we take one step?

Just one.

We don’t have to know how the entire story ends.

We only have to decide whether we’re willing to turn the page.

Because sometimes we demand certainty from love that we don’t demand from anything else.

Nobody asks the sunrise to promise that the day will be perfect.

Nobody asks a seed to guarantee what the flower will look like.

Nobody asks a journey to reveal every mile before taking the first step.

Yet when it comes to love, we want guarantees.

No pain.

No risk.

No uncertainty.

No loss.

But perhaps that is impossible.

Perhaps love has always required some surrender.

Not surrender of yourself.

Never that.

But surrender of control.

The willingness to say:

I cannot guarantee the outcome.

But I can choose how honestly I enter it.

And I can choose whether fear gets to speak louder than my heart.

If I could give you anything, I would give you freedom from the pressure to have all the answers.

You don’t have to know everything.

You don’t have to decide the rest of our lives tonight.

You don’t have to promise me anything you aren’t ready to promise.

I just want the truth.

If you want me, tell me.

If you’re scared, tell me.

If you don’t know, tell me.

If you need time, tell me.

If you think there are obstacles we cannot overcome, tell me.

I would rather hear your honest uncertainty than receive a beautiful lie.

Because love deserves truth.

And so do we.

I think sometimes we confuse loving someone with possessing them.

I don’t want to possess you.

I don’t want to control you.

I don’t want to trap you inside something you don’t freely choose.

I want you to choose.

That’s the whole point.

Not because you were pressured.

Not because you were afraid to lose me.

Not because you felt obligated.

But because, after considering everything, your heart still says:

I want to try.

I want us.

That would mean something.

Because being chosen freely is one of the most beautiful things a person can experience.

Not being needed.

Not being convenient.

Not being someone’s escape.

Being chosen.

Fully.

Consciously.

With eyes open.

Knowing the complications and still saying:

I choose you.

I don’t know whether that is what will happen.

But I know it is what my heart longs for.

And perhaps longing itself deserves compassion.

We don’t have to be ashamed of wanting something.

Wanting doesn’t make us weak.

It makes us human.

We want.

We hope.

We dream.

We imagine.

We reach.

Sometimes we get what we want.

Sometimes we don’t.

But there is something beautiful about allowing yourself to admit what matters to you.

And you matter to me.

More than I know how to put into words.

More than I have probably allowed myself to say.

There are moments when I see you and something inside me becomes completely quiet.

Not empty.

Quiet.

Like every argument disappears for a second.

Like the world pauses.

Like my heart recognizes something before my mind has time to question it.

And I don’t know what to call that.

Maybe love.

Maybe recognition.

Maybe connection.

Maybe something I don’t need to name.

Whatever it is, it is real to me.

And I can’t keep pretending it isn’t.

There is a tenderness in wanting someone you cannot simply reach.

It teaches you patience.

It teaches you humility.

It teaches you that love is not always about getting.

Sometimes it is about understanding.

Sometimes it is about waiting.

Sometimes it is about letting someone have their freedom even when every selfish part of you wants to pull them closer.

And perhaps that is one of the hardest forms of love:

I want you.

But I will not force you.

I hope for you.

But I will not own you.

I believe in us.

But I will not pretend your choice doesn’t matter.

Because your freedom matters.

Your heart matters.

Your truth matters.

And if someday you choose me, I want it to be because you truly want to.

Not because I convinced you.

Not because the world pressured you.

Not because you were afraid to lose me.

Because somewhere inside yourself, you looked at everything standing between us and still decided:

This is worth trying.

That is the kind of choice I would treasure.

And if the answer is different, I will have to learn how to accept it.

That is the painful honesty of love.

We can open our hands without knowing what will remain in them.

But for now, I’m not ready to call this impossible.

Maybe I’m not supposed to.

Maybe some things deserve a chance before they are given a funeral.

Maybe some dreams deserve to be spoken aloud before they are dismissed.

Maybe some doors deserve to be tested before we decide they’re locked.

And maybe we deserve one honest moment where neither of us is pretending.

No world.

No expectations.

No fear.

No rules written by people who don’t know what happens inside our hearts.

Just you and me.

And the truth.

If we could have one night where time stood still, I wouldn’t ask for some extravagant miracle.

I would ask for honesty.

I would look at you and say:

This is what I feel.

And then I would let you answer.

Whatever you said, I would want it to be real.

Because there is something sacred about being trusted with someone’s truth.

Maybe that is where our story begins.

Not with some dramatic declaration.

But with two people finally telling the truth.

Maybe the first step toward changing our future is simply refusing to lie about the present.

And perhaps that’s enough.

For tonight.

For now.

Maybe we don’t have to rewrite an entire universe.

Maybe we just have to rewrite the sentence that says:

This can never happen.

Maybe instead we say:

We don’t know.

And “we don’t know” is a much more beautiful place than “never.”

Never closes the door.

“We don’t know” leaves it cracked.

And sometimes a crack is all hope needs.

So I will not promise you that everything will work out.

I will not tell you that love conquers every obstacle.

That isn’t always true.

Sometimes life is bigger than what we want.

Sometimes people have responsibilities.

Sometimes timing is cruel.

Sometimes two people can love each other and still not be able to build the life they imagined.

I know that.

But I also know that we should be careful about deciding our ending before we’ve had the courage to speak honestly about our beginning.

So if there is something inside you that still wonders about us, don’t silence it simply because you’re afraid.

You don’t have to promise me forever.

Just don’t lie to yourself.

And if you still feel nothing, then tell me that too.

I will survive the truth.

What I don’t want is a life built around pretending.

I don’t want to look back someday and realize that fear was the third person in our relationship.

I don’t want to wonder whether we could have been different if we had simply been brave enough to ask.

I don’t want to spend years imagining a conversation we could have had.

So let’s have it.

Let’s be human.

Let’s be honest.

Let’s admit that this scares us.

Let’s admit that we don’t know.

Let’s admit that wanting each other is both beautiful and terrifying.

Let’s admit that circumstances matter.

Let’s admit that feelings matter too.

Let’s stop treating one truth as if it has to erase the other.

Maybe we can hold both.

Maybe we can say:

This is complicated.

And still:

This is real.

Maybe we can say:

I’m afraid.

And still:

I want to try.

Maybe we can say:

I don’t know where this ends.

And still:

I want to see where it goes.

Maybe we can say:

There are obstacles.

And still:

Let’s face them honestly.

Together.

Not against the world.

Not in some dramatic battle.

Just two people doing what two people have always done when something matters:

Trying.

And if we fail, we will have failed honestly.

If we hurt, we will know we lived honestly.

If it works, maybe we will one day look back at this moment and laugh at how afraid we were.

Maybe someday this whole impossible thing will become ordinary.

Maybe someday you will be sitting across from me at a kitchen table.

Maybe the world will be quiet.

Maybe there will be dishes in the sink.

Maybe one of us will complain about being tired.

Maybe we will have forgotten the exact words we used to describe how impossible it all once seemed.

And maybe I’ll look at you and think:

We really did it.

Not because the universe magically handed us everything.

But because somewhere along the way, we chose to participate in our own lives.

We chose honesty.

We chose courage.

We chose each other.

And perhaps that’s the future I keep imagining.

Not perfection.

Not some fairytale.

Just us.

Alive.

Together.

Ordinary.

Happy in the quiet way that doesn’t need an audience.

Maybe that’s what I want most.

Not a grand romance everyone can see.

A private kind of love.

The kind that exists in tiny things.

A hand reaching for mine without thinking.

A familiar smile from across a room.

A message saying, “Did you get home safely?”

A sleepy goodnight.

A laugh from the next room.

A forehead against mine.

A shared look when something ridiculous happens.

Someone knowing when I need silence.

Someone knowing when I need to talk.

Someone remembering the little things.

Someone staying.

And me doing the same for you.

That sounds like heaven to me.

Not because it is perfect.

Because it is ours.

Maybe that is what I mean when I say I want us to choose our own story.

I don’t mean we can control everything.

We can’t.

I mean I want us to stop giving away every decision to forces outside ourselves.

Circumstances can influence us.

They can challenge us.

They can change our plans.

But they should not automatically become the voice that tells us what our hearts are allowed to feel.

We get a voice too.

You get one.

I get one.

And maybe, for once, we should use them.

So if you are scared, take my hand.

If you are uncertain, tell me.

If you need time, I will understand.

If you need space, I will respect it.

But please don’t tell yourself that wanting me is something shameful.

Please don’t tell yourself that your heart is foolish for reaching toward mine.

Maybe it is not foolish.

Maybe it is simply alive.

And maybe mine is alive too.

Maybe that is why this feels so impossible to ignore.

Because beneath all the arguments, beneath all the distance, beneath all the fear, there is still this:

You.

Me.

And something between us that keeps asking to be acknowledged.

I don’t know what name it deserves.

I don’t know what future it has.

But I know it deserves honesty.

And so do we.

If the world says no, we will hear it.

If reality says something is impossible, we will face that reality.

But we will not manufacture impossibility simply because we are frightened.

We will not call something doomed before giving it the dignity of a real conversation.

We will not let fear make our decisions and then blame fate for them.

If we have to let go someday, let it be because we truly cannot walk the same road.

Not because we were too afraid to take the first step.

That distinction matters to me.

You matter to me.

And whatever happens, I want you to know that.

I don’t regret feeling this.

I don’t regret caring.

I don’t regret the moments that made me believe there could be something here.

Even if the future changes.

Even if life takes us somewhere unexpected.

I would rather have known what it felt like to love you honestly than spend my life wondering whether I ever could.

And if this is the last thing I ever get to say about us, let it be gentle.

Let it be free.

I don’t need you to become a prisoner of my hope.

I don’t need you to carry my dreams.

I simply need you to know that somewhere in this enormous world, there is a heart that looked at you and saw possibility.

Not perfection.

Possibility.

A heart that believed maybe you were worth taking a chance on.

A heart that believed maybe what we felt deserved to be spoken.

A heart that wanted, just once, to choose something because it was true rather than because it was safe.

And maybe you feel the same.

Maybe you don’t.

But if you do, please don’t be afraid of the question.

What if?

What if we try?

What if we talk?

What if we stop assuming the ending?

What if we give ourselves one honest chance?

What if we discover that the impossible was simply something neither of us had dared to attempt?

And what if we don’t?

What if we try and discover that some roads really cannot be walked together?

Then at least we will know.

At least the ghosts will be quieter.

At least we won’t have to spend the rest of our lives asking whether courage might have changed everything.

Because sometimes the greatest heartbreak isn’t losing someone.

It’s never finding out whether you could have had them.

So if there is still a little light between us, protect it.

Don’t turn it into a wildfire.

Don’t force it.

Don’t demand that it become something overnight.

Just don’t extinguish it out of fear.

Let it breathe.

Let it become what it is supposed to become.

And if that means friendship, let it be honest.

If it means love, let it be honest.

If it means something we cannot name yet, let it be that.

We don’t have to force the future into a shape today.

We only have to stop lying about what exists right now.

And what exists right now is this strange, beautiful, frightening truth:

I care about you.

Deeply.

I want you in my life.

I don’t know exactly what that means yet.

But I know I don’t want fear to decide for me.

And perhaps that is my whole heart speaking.

Not demanding.

Not begging.

Just asking you to look at me.

Really look.

And if somewhere inside you there is still a voice asking the same questions mine is asking, maybe we can listen to it.

Maybe we can sit with the uncertainty.

Maybe we can allow ourselves to hope without demanding guarantees.

Maybe we can take one step.

Then another.

And see what happens.

Because perhaps love was never meant to be a map.

Perhaps it is a compass.

It doesn’t always tell you exactly where you will end up.

It simply tells you which direction your heart is pointing.

And mine keeps pointing toward you.

I can’t pretend otherwise.

I don’t want to anymore.

So here is the truth, without poetry, without defenses, without all the things we use to make ourselves feel safer:

I want you.

I care about you.

I believe there is something between us.

I am scared.

I know there are obstacles.

I know wanting something does not guarantee getting it.

I know love cannot solve everything.

But I also know that I don’t want fear pretending to be fate.

I don’t want other people’s expectations writing every line of our story.

I don’t want circumstances to become an excuse for never asking what might be possible.

I want us to be honest.

Whatever that honesty leads to.

And if there is even a small part of you that wants the same thing, then maybe we owe ourselves the courage to find out.

Not tomorrow.

Not some imaginary perfect time.

Just when we’re ready to stop hiding.

Because maybe the future isn’t waiting for us somewhere far away.

Maybe it begins in a conversation.

Maybe it begins in a look that finally doesn’t turn away.

Maybe it begins with one person saying:

“I want this.”

And the other finally having the courage to answer:

“So do I.”

Maybe it begins there.

Maybe that’s all the universe ever needed from us.

Not perfection.

Not certainty.

Just choice.

And if someday we look back on this moment, I hope we don’t remember it as the moment we were too afraid.

I hope we remember it as the moment we finally became honest enough to find out.

Whatever happens after that—

at least it will be ours.

Not written for us.

Not decided for us.

Not surrendered before we began.

Ours.

And perhaps that is the most beautiful thing two people can ever give one another:

not a promise that nothing will go wrong,

but the courage to meet the unknown together.

So if you are standing there wondering whether to reach for me, know this:

You don’t have to know the whole future.

Just reach honestly.

And I will meet you there.

Not with a perfect answer.

Not with guarantees.

Just with my whole heart.

And maybe, for once, that can be enough.

Maybe two people don’t need the stars to rearrange themselves.

Maybe they simply need to stop being afraid of looking at the sky and admitting they want the same thing.

Maybe the world will remain complicated.

Maybe life will remain imperfect.

Maybe there will always be reasons to hesitate.

But tonight, somewhere between fear and hope, between what we were told and what we feel, between what seems possible and what our hearts still dream about—

there is a choice.

Yours.

Mine.

Ours.

And if we choose to take even one step toward each other, then whatever comes next, at least we will know we were brave enough to try.

Maybe that’s where our story truly begins.

Not with destiny.

Not with certainty.

Not with a guarantee.

With a choice.

A simple, terrifying, beautiful choice:

I see you.

I want you.

I am afraid.

And I’m still willing to find out what could happen if we choose each other.