u/I-love-carbonara

Hi po! May I ask how to commute from San Mateo Plaza to UP Diliman? Also, around how much po would the fare be? Thank you po!

I thought I would marry him. I thought that when we met it was written in the stars, etched into the sky, a pattern no one else could see. I thought destiny was kind, that the universe had whispered our names together, that somehow the world would bend for us. I have loved him twice already. Twice, I gave everything and twice, I thought it would be enough. Twice, I believed in forever, and now I am still here, waiting for a forever that will not come.

Our birthdays add up to forty-four. Our lucky numbers are eight, and I counted them like a secret, a promise, a prayer. I imagined them meaning something, a sign that he was my pair, that I was not alone. But what is a sign when the world is loud and indifferent? What is a number when the hand that was supposed to hold yours is gone?

I am just a four now. Just a four waiting for the other half, waiting for someone to complete what was started, waiting for a hand to meet mine and whisper what I have been dying to hear: “I love you too.” I walk through my days, but the world is muted, hollow. I see him in everything—streetlights, the echo of laughter, the way the wind moves like memory itself. I cannot forget him. I cannot stop remembering him. And sometimes, I think I would rather die with him in my heart than live without him.

I move forward, yes. I do. I keep my appointments, I smile at strangers, I eat and breathe and sleep. But inside me, there is a room that has never been cleaned, a room where he sits still, unchanging, untouched by time, untouched by reason. I talk to him there. I argue, I beg, I cry. And he does not answer, and I do not leave, and I do not stop loving.

The nights are worse. In the dark, he is alive again. I feel his hand brush mine. I hear his laugh. I imagine him saying the words I have never heard: “I love you too.” My chest aches, my hands shake, my eyes burn, and I write these words down so that someone, someday, might know the way a heart can carry someone across years and loss and absence.

I am waiting for him. Or maybe I am waiting for myself. Waiting for the day when this four finds its pair, when the sum of a life finally feels right, when the universe bends a little closer, when the hollow is filled, when the ache is returned with a heartbeat, when the words I’ve been waiting for finally reach me.

Until then, I am here. Waiting. Remembering. Loving. Breathing. Living. Hurting. Hoping. Always hoping.

And still, I wait.

Call me back in the afterlife. Not because I expect the universe to bend twice for a love like ours, but because even when this life ends, my waiting will not. Some promises survive the body, slipping into whatever form the soul takes next. And mine, stubborn as ever, will carry your name like a quiet vow.

I have watched you move through the world with a kind of gentle certainty—every step a reminder that distance is a myth; that longing can follow someone as faithfully as a shadow. Even now, I study the outline of your life from afar, learning its cadence the way one memorizes a prayer: slowly, reverently, and with an ache that does not leave.

You have always been the closest I will ever come to something divine. Not the heaven promised in scriptures, but the heaven found in a person—in the softness of their presence, in the impossible pull of their gravity. I felt it once, and that was enough to mark me forever. Even if we are denied our moment in this life, I will keep that fragment of heaven as something mine to cherish.

They say angels do not fall. But if that were true, I would not be here—bruised by the descent, luminous still with the remnants of faith. I fell for you with the certainty of a star leaving its orbit, and you, with your wings unbroken, looked at me as I fell yet you chose not to catch me. Perhaps that is your nature: to remain above what you cannot hold. Perhaps that is mine: to love even as I fall.

Still, I do not grieve the fall. Some distances are meant to be crossed only by the heart. Some loves, too large for one lifetime, are meant to echo into the next. So I will wait for you—quietly, faithfully, without demand. I will wait in every lifetime granted to me, arms open as if welcoming a promise returning home. If fate is kind, you will find me. If fate is cruel, I will search for you anyway.

Meet me somewhere only we know—that invisible place where I once saw the faint outline of us, a possibility fragile as light, but bright enough to guide me still.

Call me back in the afterlife. Call me back when you’re ready. Because love, in its truest form, does not end—it simply waits.

Call me back in the afterlife. Not because I expect the universe to bend twice for a love like ours, but because even when this life ends, my waiting will not. Some promises survive the body, slipping into whatever form the soul takes next. And mine, stubborn as ever, will carry your name like a quiet vow.

I have watched you move through the world with a kind of gentle certainty—every step a reminder that distance is a myth; that longing can follow someone as faithfully as a shadow. Even now, I study the outline of your life from afar, learning its cadence the way one memorizes a prayer: slowly, reverently, and with an ache that does not leave.

You have always been the closest I will ever come to something divine. Not the heaven promised in scriptures, but the heaven found in a person—in the softness of their presence, in the impossible pull of their gravity. I felt it once, and that was enough to mark me forever. Even if we are denied our moment in this life, I will keep that fragment of heaven as something mine to cherish.

They say angels do not fall. But if that were true, I would not be here—bruised by the descent, luminous still with the remnants of faith. I fell for you with the certainty of a star leaving its orbit, and you, with your wings unbroken, looked at me as I fell yet you chose not to catch me. Perhaps that is your nature: to remain above what you cannot hold. Perhaps that is mine: to love even as I fall.

Still, I do not grieve the fall. Some distances are meant to be crossed only by the heart. Some loves, too large for one lifetime, are meant to echo into the next. So I will wait for you—quietly, faithfully, without demand. I will wait in every lifetime granted to me, arms open as if welcoming a promise returning home. If fate is kind, you will find me. If fate is cruel, I will search for you anyway.

Meet me somewhere only we know—that invisible place where I once saw the faint outline of us, a possibility fragile as light, but bright enough to guide me still.

Call me back in the afterlife. Call me back when you’re ready. Because love, in its truest form, does not end—it simply waits.

Call me back in the afterlife. Not because I expect the universe to bend twice for a love like ours, but because even when this life ends, my waiting will not. Some promises survive the body, slipping into whatever form the soul takes next. And mine, stubborn as ever, will carry your name like a quiet vow.

I have watched you move through the world with a kind of gentle certainty—every step a reminder that distance is a myth; that longing can follow someone as faithfully as a shadow. Even now, I study the outline of your life from afar, learning its cadence the way one memorizes a prayer: slowly, reverently, and with an ache that does not leave.

You have always been the closest I will ever come to something divine. Not the heaven promised in scriptures, but the heaven found in a person—in the softness of their presence, in the impossible pull of their gravity. I felt it once, and that was enough to mark me forever. Even if we are denied our moment in this life, I will keep that fragment of heaven as something mine to cherish.

They say angels do not fall. But if that were true, I would not be here—bruised by the descent, luminous still with the remnants of faith. I fell for you with the certainty of a star leaving its orbit, and you, with your wings unbroken, looked at me as I fell yet you chose not to catch me. Perhaps that is your nature: to remain above what you cannot hold. Perhaps that is mine: to love even as I fall.

Still, I do not grieve the fall. Some distances are meant to be crossed only by the heart. Some loves, too large for one lifetime, are meant to echo into the next. So I will wait for you—quietly, faithfully, without demand. I will wait in every lifetime granted to me, arms open as if welcoming a promise returning home. If fate is kind, you will find me. If fate is cruel, I will search for you anyway.

Meet me somewhere only we know—that invisible place where I once saw the faint outline of us, a possibility fragile as light, but bright enough to guide me still.

Call me back in the afterlife. Call me back when you’re ready. Because love, in its truest form, does not end—it simply waits.

​

My biology teacher once said that love doesn't come from the heart at all-it blooms in the hypothalamus, a tiny command center tucked deep inside the brain. She said the heart is only a servant, beating because it is told to, obeying signals sent by that quiet cluster of cells. It is the hypothalamus, she explained, that whispers the language of affection, that triggers longing, that lights up intimacy like a switch in the dark.

And maybe she's right. Maybe science has mapped out every spark that fires when we look at someone and feel something shift inside us. Maybe love is a chemical reaction, nothing more than electricity and timing.

But hell-what do I do with the parts of me that don't fit into a diagram? What about the way my chest tightens when I hear your name? What about the ache that isn't in my brain, but somewhere deeper, somewhere I can't locate with any textbook term?

Because here's the truth I live with: Science can measure the signals, but it can't measure you. It can explain the mechanism, but not the meaning. It can name the hormones, but not the way you make even silence feel like sunlight.

So screw the boundaries of biology. I will love you with everything my anatomy can't explain with the heart that insists on choosing you, with the mind that refuses to unthink you, and with the soul that science has no word for, but gives anyway, entirely, endlessly, and without apology.

My biology teacher once said that love doesn't come from the heart at all-it blooms in the hypothalamus, a tiny command center tucked deep inside the brain. She said the heart is only a servant, beating because it is told to, obeying signals sent by that quiet cluster of cells. It is the hypothalamus, she explained, that whispers the language of affection, that triggers longing, that lights up intimacy like a switch in the dark.

And maybe she's right. Maybe science has mapped out every spark that fires when we look at someone and feel something shift inside us. Maybe love is a chemical reaction, nothing more than electricity and timing.

But hell-what do I do with the parts of me that don't fit into a diagram? What about the way my chest tightens when I hear your name? What about the ache that isn't in my brain, but somewhere deeper, somewhere I can't locate with any textbook term?

Because here's the truth I live with: Science can measure the signals, but it can't measure you. It can explain the mechanism, but not the meaning. It can name the hormones, but not the way you make even silence feel like sunlight.

So screw the boundaries of biology. I will love you with everything my anatomy can't explain with the heart that insists on choosing you, with the mind that refuses to unthink you, and with the soul that science has no word for, but gives anyway, entirely, endlessly, and without apology.

Love has always been a fleeting thing in my world. I have seen it slip through trembling hands, dissolve in the weight of whispered regrets, and crumble beneath the pressure of time. It was never just my parents-I watched friends fall into love's embrace, only to be left grasping at the empty air where something once bloomed. Laughter that once echoed through halls turned to quiet sighs; promises faded like ink left too long in the sun.

So I built walls, carefully and deliberately. Love, I told myself, was a storm I did not wish to chase. I would not sing of it, would not let it carve itself into my bones, only to leave me hollow. My mother, too, had learned this lesson-her heart, once open, had learned to close. And in her silence, I found my own resolve: to keep a comfortable distance, to let loneliness be my shelter rather than a sorrow.

But then, there was you.

You arrived like a quiet revolution, undoing years of certainty with a single glance, a single moment where my walls faltered. I had always believed love was not worth the risk, that it was nothing more than a beautiful illusion-but you became the only exception. The space I had so carefully protected began to crack, letting in something unfamiliar yet undeniably warm.

Maybe, deep down, I still fear love's impermanence. Maybe I know it is as fleeting as waves retreating from the shore. But for the first time, I am willing to hold on, to hope that this is not just a dream. And if the morning comes and you must leave, I ask only for proof that this was real.

Because after everything-after all I have seen, all I have sworn to protect myself from-you remain my only exception.

Love has always been a fleeting thing in my world. I have seen it slip through trembling hands, dissolve in the weight of whispered regrets, and crumble beneath the pressure of time. It was never just my parents-I watched friends fall into love's embrace, only to be left grasping at the empty air where something once bloomed. Laughter that once echoed through halls turned to quiet sighs; promises faded like ink left too long in the sun.

So I built walls, carefully and deliberately. Love, I told myself, was a storm I did not wish to chase. I would not sing of it, would not let it carve itself into my bones, only to leave me hollow. My mother, too, had learned this lesson-her heart, once open, had learned to close. And in her silence, I found my own resolve: to keep a comfortable distance, to let loneliness be my shelter rather than a sorrow.

But then, there was you.

You arrived like a quiet revolution, undoing years of certainty with a single glance, a single moment where my walls faltered. I had always believed love was not worth the risk, that it was nothing more than a beautiful illusion-but you became the only exception. The space I had so carefully protected began to crack, letting in something unfamiliar yet undeniably warm.

Maybe, deep down, I still fear love's impermanence. Maybe I know it is as fleeting as waves retreating from the shore. But for the first time, I am willing to hold on, to hope that this is not just a dream. And if the morning comes and you must leave, I ask only for proof that this was real.

Because after everything-after all I have seen, all I have sworn to protect myself from-you remain my only exception.

Love is often a story we tell ourselves-a dream so vivid, we mistake it for reality. But what happens when the dream unravels? When the colors fade to gray, and the lines blur between truth and illusion? Was it love, or was it just a play, a stage set for two with an audience of none?

I look back and wonder: Did I ever know you? Or were you merely a reflection, a mirage in the shifting sands of memory? You played the role so well, each word rehearsed, each smile a masterpiece of deception. And I, the willing believer, mistook the act for sincerity. Perhaps I should warn her-the one who now holds your hand, who whispers your name in the dark. Or perhaps she will learn, as I did, that not all shadows are cast by the light.

Yet, I do not miss you. Or so I tell myself. I walk forward, never looking back, yet somehow, the echoes remain. Not that I would call, not that I would change a thing. Still, the thought lingers-we happened.

And though I have found my way without you, though I have learned to stand on my own, there are nights when I remember the warmth of your arms, the way tears could travel between laughter and sorrow in the span of a heartbeat. But I do not reach for you. Instead, I rise, higher than the exosphere, untethered, unbound.

If you dare, meet me there, beyond the weight of the past. But I will not wait. I will not fall. For I have found my place not in the echoes of yesterday, but in the quiet certainty of today.

And so, I close this chapter-not with regret, not with longing, but with the simple truth that some stories are meant to end. Some dreams are meant to fade. And some hearts are meant to beat free.

Love has always been a fleeting thing in my world. I have seen it slip through trembling hands, dissolve in the weight of whispered regrets, and crumble beneath the pressure of time. It was never just my parents-I watched friends fall into love's embrace, only to be left grasping at the empty air where something once bloomed. Laughter that once echoed through halls turned to quiet sighs; promises faded like ink left too long in the sun.

So I built walls, carefully and deliberately. Love, I told myself, was a storm I did not wish to chase. I would not sing of it, would not let it carve itself into my bones, only to leave me hollow. My mother, too, had learned this lesson-her heart, once open, had learned to close. And in her silence, I found my own resolve: to keep a comfortable distance, to let loneliness be my shelter rather than a sorrow.

But then, there was you.

You arrived like a quiet revolution, undoing years of certainty with a single glance, a single moment where my walls faltered. I had always believed love was not worth the risk, that it was nothing more than a beautiful illusion-but you became the only exception. The space I had so carefully protected began to crack, letting in something unfamiliar yet undeniably warm.

Maybe, deep down, I still fear love's impermanence. Maybe I know it is as fleeting as waves retreating from the shore. But for the first time, I am willing to hold on, to hope that this is not just a dream. And if the morning comes and you must leave, I ask only for proof that this was real.

Because after everything-after all I have seen, all I have sworn to protect myself from-you remain my only exception.

Maybe Loving You Meant Losing Myself

Maybe I wasn’t loved the way I wanted to be. Maybe I was too much—too raw, too real, too ready to give everything I had even when it was never asked for. I’ve always been the kind of person who doesn’t love halfway. When I love, I give all of me—every thought, every sleepless night, every piece of my heart that still knows how to hope. But I learned that not everyone can handle that kind of love. Some people want warmth, but not the fire that comes with it.

Anyone can have my heart, but not everyone can take the weight of it. Because when I love, I don’t just want to be beside you—I want to be in you. Not in the physical sense, but in the kind that stays. In your memories, your habits, your silence. The kind that lingers when everything else fades. Maybe that’s what love was to me: a slow, beautiful kind of cannibalism. A way of being consumed by someone until you forget where you end and they begin.

It’s strange, because I never considered myself religious. I never prayed, never begged the heavens for anything—until you. I found myself whispering your name like a prayer I wasn’t sure anyone would answer. I went to church not for faith, but for you. I prayed for us to be something—though I didn’t even know what that something was. Maybe I just wanted you to crave me the way I craved you.

But love like mine is dangerous. It’s not gentle—it’s obsessive. It’s wanting to keep someone so close that you start losing yourself in the process. It’s sweet at first, until it starts to hurt. Because how do you love someone without wanting to consume everything about them? How do you stop when the only way you know how to love is to give everything you have, even the parts you shouldn’t?

I used to imagine us riding through the quiet roads of Siquijor, laughing like the world was ours. Maybe in that version of us, we were free. No ghosts, no prayers, no hunger. Just you and me, existing without fear of being too much. But in this reality, I was the one who loved too deeply—and you were the one who left before you could drown.

Our love felt like a ritual I never stopped performing, even after you were gone. I kept searching for traces of you in every silence, every breath, every ache. It felt like you had eaten parts of me—the softest, most hopeful ones—and left me hollow but still craving you.

Now I understand. Cannibalism wasn’t about destruction—it was about obsession. About wanting someone so completely that even when they leave, you still feel them living inside you. That’s what you did to me. You became part of me in ways I can’t undo.

If you ever come back, I won’t ask for love or promises. Just bring back the pieces of myself I lost while loving you. Maybe then I can finally stop praying for someone who was never meant to stay.

Because maybe loving you meant losing myself—

and maybe that’s what love really is:

a kind of beautiful, quiet self-destruction we never learn to regret.

​

Maybe I wasn’t loved the way I wanted to be. Maybe I was too much—too raw, too real, too ready to give everything I had even when it was never asked for. I’ve always been the kind of person who doesn’t love halfway. When I love, I give all of me—every thought, every sleepless night, every piece of my heart that still knows how to hope. But I learned that not everyone can handle that kind of love. Some people want warmth, but not the fire that comes with it.

Anyone can have my heart, but not everyone can take the weight of it. Because when I love, I don’t just want to be beside you—I want to be in you. Not in the physical sense, but in the kind that stays. In your memories, your habits, your silence. The kind that lingers when everything else fades. Maybe that’s what love was to me: a slow, beautiful kind of cannibalism. A way of being consumed by someone until you forget where you end and they begin.

It’s strange, because I never considered myself religious. I never prayed, never begged the heavens for anything—until you. I found myself whispering your name like a prayer I wasn’t sure anyone would answer. I went to church not for faith, but for you. I prayed for us to be something—though I didn’t even know what that something was. Maybe I just wanted you to crave me the way I craved you.

But love like mine is dangerous. It’s not gentle—it’s obsessive. It’s wanting to keep someone so close that you start losing yourself in the process. It’s sweet at first, until it starts to hurt. Because how do you love someone without wanting to consume everything about them? How do you stop when the only way you know how to love is to give everything you have, even the parts you shouldn’t?

I used to imagine us riding through the quiet roads of Siquijor, laughing like the world was ours. Maybe in that version of us, we were free. No ghosts, no prayers, no hunger. Just you and me, existing without fear of being too much. But in this reality, I was the one who loved too deeply—and you were the one who left before you could drown.

Our love felt like a ritual I never stopped performing, even after you were gone. I kept searching for traces of you in every silence, every breath, every ache. It felt like you had eaten parts of me—the softest, most hopeful ones—and left me hollow but still craving you.

Now I understand. Cannibalism wasn’t about destruction—it was about obsession. About wanting someone so completely that even when they leave, you still feel them living inside you. That’s what you did to me. You became part of me in ways I can’t undo.

If you ever come back, I won’t ask for love or promises. Just bring back the pieces of myself I lost while loving you. Maybe then I can finally stop praying for someone who was never meant to stay.

Because maybe loving you meant losing myself—

and maybe that’s what love really is:

a kind of beautiful, quiet self-destruction we never learn to regret.

Life, I’ve often felt, is a game much like chess—where every move holds meaning, every step is deliberate,

and the silence between motions speaks volumes.

It is not chaos that guides me, but calculation.

I am no wanderer on the board.

I am a mastermind.

In chess, you learn early that power lies not in speed,

but in strategy.

I have learned to think ten steps ahead— to sacrifice when needed, to hold back when wise, and to move forward when the time is right.

Each piece I play is not just part of the game; it is a message, a whisper of intention.

So believe me when I say: this was always the plan.

From the first glance, from the quiet beginning when the world did not yet know your name,

I already knew the shape of our endgame.

You—my king.

Me—your queen.

Not by accident, but by design.

I am not here to conquer you, not here to trap you in checkmate and declare victory.

This is not that kind of game.

I do not wish to win against you— I wish to win with you.

To rise, not alone, but beside you.

To be the queen not of the board, but of your heart.

To move not just with purpose, but with love.

For every pawn I've pushed, every knight I’ve turned,

was all a part of this quiet revolution—to bring us to this moment, where we reign not as rivals, but as rulers of something greater than a game.

So let the world play as it must.

Let them watch.

Let them wonder how we arrived here.

But know this: you were always the end I was moving toward, and I?

I was always meant to be your queen.

I will never ask for anything more. There is nothing left to hide, though I am both addicted and terrified. I put fear aside, because it has always been only you and I—two souls spinning in a world too loud, where music plays, where people exist, but we do not care if they are watching.

We are one love, divided only to be shared between two hearts. Two lives breathing as one, speaking three words that carry the weight of everything: I love you. If I have only one life, let it be spent with you. If I have only two thoughts, let them both be of us. And if I can say only three words for the rest of my days, let them be: I love you.

It is your eyes, your smile, the way they undo me without effort. I did not mean to fall, yet I did—recklessly, completely. Now I hope that somehow we belong to each other in the end. Do I confess, or do I let silence steal this fragile space between us?

I wonder if you feel it too, in those quiet hours we share. Do you ask yourself what we are to each other? For me, the answer is unchanging. Day and night, you are the constant thought. Even in dreams, it is your face I see. My only wish is simple: to grow old with you, to choose you over and over again, until choosing no longer needs to be spoken.

I will never ask for anything more. There is nothing left to hide, though I am both addicted and terrified. I put fear aside, because it has always been only you and I—two souls spinning in a world too loud, where music plays, where people exist, but we do not care if they are watching.

We are one love, divided only to be shared between two hearts. Two lives breathing as one, speaking three words that carry the weight of everything: I love you. If I have only one life, let it be spent with you. If I have only two thoughts, let them both be of us. And if I can say only three words for the rest of my days, let them be: I love you.

It is your eyes, your smile, the way they undo me without effort. I did not mean to fall, yet I did—recklessly, completely. Now I hope that somehow we belong to each other in the end. Do I confess, or do I let silence steal this fragile space between us?

I wonder if you feel it too, in those quiet hours we share. Do you ask yourself what we are to each other? For me, the answer is unchanging. Day and night, you are the constant thought. Even in dreams, it is your face I see. My only wish is simple: to grow old with you, to choose you over and over again, until choosing no longer needs to be spoken.

I will never ask for anything more. There is nothing left to hide, though I am both addicted and terrified. I put fear aside, because it has always been only you and I—two souls spinning in a world too loud, where music plays, where people exist, but we do not care if they are watching.

We are one love, divided only to be shared between two hearts. Two lives breathing as one, speaking three words that carry the weight of everything: I love you. If I have only one life, let it be spent with you. If I have only two thoughts, let them both be of us. And if I can say only three words for the rest of my days, let them be: I love you.

It is your eyes, your smile, the way they undo me without effort. I did not mean to fall, yet I did—recklessly, completely. Now I hope that somehow we belong to each other in the end. Do I confess, or do I let silence steal this fragile space between us?

I wonder if you feel it too, in those quiet hours we share. Do you ask yourself what we are to each other? For me, the answer is unchanging. Day and night, you are the constant thought. Even in dreams, it is your face I see. My only wish is simple: to grow old with you, to choose you over and over again, until choosing no longer needs to be spoken.

I Am Waiting

I thought I would marry him. I thought that when we met it was written in the stars, etched into the sky, a pattern no one else could see. I thought destiny was kind, that the universe had whispered our names together, that somehow the world would bend for us. I have loved him twice already. Twice, I gave everything and twice, I thought it would be enough. Twice, I believed in forever, and now I am still here, waiting for a forever that will not come.

Our birthdays add up to forty-four. Our lucky numbers are eight, and I counted them like a secret, a promise, a prayer. I imagined them meaning something, a sign that he was my pair, that I was not alone. But what is a sign when the world is loud and indifferent? What is a number when the hand that was supposed to hold yours is gone?

I am just a four now. Just a four waiting for the other half, waiting for someone to complete what was started, waiting for a hand to meet mine and whisper what I have been dying to hear: “I love you too.” I walk through my days, but the world is muted, hollow. I see him in everything—streetlights, the echo of laughter, the way the wind moves like memory itself. I cannot forget him. I cannot stop remembering him. And sometimes, I think I would rather die with him in my heart than live without him.

I move forward, yes. I do. I keep my appointments, I smile at strangers, I eat and breathe and sleep. But inside me, there is a room that has never been cleaned, a room where he sits still, unchanging, untouched by time, untouched by reason. I talk to him there. I argue, I beg, I cry. And he does not answer, and I do not leave, and I do not stop loving.

The nights are worse. In the dark, he is alive again. I feel his hand brush mine. I hear his laugh. I imagine him saying the words I have never heard: “I love you too.” My chest aches, my hands shake, my eyes burn, and I write these words down so that someone, someday, might know the way a heart can carry someone across years and loss and absence.

I am waiting for him. Or maybe I am waiting for myself. Waiting for the day when this four finds its pair, when the sum of a life finally feels right, when the universe bends a little closer, when the hollow is filled, when the ache is returned with a heartbeat, when the words I’ve been waiting for finally reach me.

Until then, I am here. Waiting. Remembering. Loving. Breathing. Living. Hurting. Hoping. Always hoping.

And still, I wait.

I thought I would marry him. I thought that when we met it was written in the stars, etched into the sky, a pattern no one else could see. I thought destiny was kind, that the universe had whispered our names together, that somehow the world would bend for us. I have loved him twice already. Twice, I gave everything and twice, I thought it would be enough. Twice, I believed in forever, and now I am still here, waiting for a forever that will not come.

Our birthdays add up to forty-four. Our lucky numbers are eight, and I counted them like a secret, a promise, a prayer. I imagined them meaning something, a sign that he was my pair, that I was not alone. But what is a sign when the world is loud and indifferent? What is a number when the hand that was supposed to hold yours is gone?

I am just a four now. Just a four waiting for the other half, waiting for someone to complete what was started, waiting for a hand to meet mine and whisper what I have been dying to hear: “I love you too.” I walk through my days, but the world is muted, hollow. I see him in everything—streetlights, the echo of laughter, the way the wind moves like memory itself. I cannot forget him. I cannot stop remembering him. And sometimes, I think I would rather die with him in my heart than live without him.

I move forward, yes. I do. I keep my appointments, I smile at strangers, I eat and breathe and sleep. But inside me, there is a room that has never been cleaned, a room where he sits still, unchanging, untouched by time, untouched by reason. I talk to him there. I argue, I beg, I cry. And he does not answer, and I do not leave, and I do not stop loving.

The nights are worse. In the dark, he is alive again. I feel his hand brush mine. I hear his laugh. I imagine him saying the words I have never heard: “I love you too.” My chest aches, my hands shake, my eyes burn, and I write these words down so that someone, someday, might know the way a heart can carry someone across years and loss and absence.

I am waiting for him. Or maybe I am waiting for myself. Waiting for the day when this four finds its pair, when the sum of a life finally feels right, when the universe bends a little closer, when the hollow is filled, when the ache is returned with a heartbeat, when the words I’ve been waiting for finally reach me.

Until then, I am here. Waiting. Remembering. Loving. Breathing. Living. Hurting. Hoping. Always hoping.

And still, I wait.

There is a longing that neither time nor distance can erase—a yearning that lingers in the quiet spaces between memories. I find myself traveling through unfamiliar places, where the streets whisper stories I do not understand, where the skies stretch endlessly, yet none feel like home. You are far away, yet never truly gone, for in the corners of my mind, you remain—appearing a hundred times a day, in fleeting thoughts, in echoes of laughter, in the quiet ache of solitude.

If only you knew. If only you could see the way your absence lingers, the way it turns ordinary moments into echoes of the past. When the world feels too heavy, when uncertainty weighs upon me, I reach for the one thing that remains—your photograph. In its silent presence, I find both comfort and sorrow, a reminder of the love that once was, of the love that still is. I miss you. I miss the way the world felt smaller when you were near, the way time held meaning when measured by moments spent together.

Yet now, I stand at a crossroads, lost in the void, drifting between the past and the present. The distance between us is more than just miles—it is a chasm carved by fate, by choices, by time itself. And yet, I refuse to believe that this is how our story ends. Somewhere in the expanse of this world, there is a path that leads back to you. I will find it. I must. Because love like ours is rare, and to lose it would be to lose a part of myself.

I do not care how long it takes. Whether it is days, months, or years, I will wait. I will chase every sunrise, cross every ocean, and search every map until I stand beside you once more. Until I can look into your eyes and know that all of this—the distance, the longing, the uncertainty—was merely a chapter, not the final page.

For something deep within tells me that we will be alright. That no matter how far we drift, no matter how lost we feel, we are bound by something greater than space or time. And so, I move forward, with hope as my compass, with love as my guide. My soul may wander in the void, but my destination is certain—I am coming home to you.