snowmacaque

[snowmacaque]

There’s a song I can’t listen to without thinking of her. She introduced it to me, just like she introduced me to so many other things I might have overlooked if not for her. It’s beautiful, composed like a distant storm, building and fading with a silent kind of majesty. It carries a weightless feeling, the kind I used to have when everything still felt like it was leading somewhere. When she was still beside me, and the future was an open sky instead of a closed door.

I remember the first time I heard it. We were playing together, laughing, exploring places I wasn’t supposed to reach yet, but she found a way to bring me there early. That was always her, wasn’t it? Showing me things I never thought I’d see. She helped me find the landmarks, the secrets, the sights. I didn’t know then, how much I’d cling to those moments, and how they’d turn into a map of everything I lost.

Now the song plays, and it’s not just a song. It’s a place. A memory. A feeling. It’s the echo of a time when I didn’t have to question where I stood with her. When I thought maybe—just maybe—she’d always be there. The music swells, and I can almost see her again, hear her voice guiding me forward; telling me to hurry up. But then it ends, and I remember.

This song will always be tied to her, to that time, to the version of me that existed before I knew what it meant to love something I could never have. To feel a connection that never truly existed. To have thoughts and feelings— hopes and dreams— that only ever existed in my mind. To lose something that never really belonged to me. To have felt something so deeply without ever having the right to claim it. And I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse, knowing the pain it brought is what shaped me into who I am today. Maybe it’s both.

[snowmacaque]

I don’t know why she still has this power over me. It’s like, even in her absence, my mind doesn’t let her go. I try to let her fade into the background of my life, to let the past rest, to close that chapter, but somehow—she always finds a way to make her presence known. Last night, it was in a dream. And for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. I thought I had moved on. I had moved on. But that dream? It shattered everything I thought I had rebuilt.

In the dream, we were talking, like we used to. She was there, real and tangible, just like in those moments when we shared the world together. I felt her warmth, her voice, the way she used to make everything feel lighter, even when things were heavy. And then, she hugged me. It felt like a release, like maybe all the unresolved pain could be washed away in a simple embrace. But the minute she distanced herself again, it all came flooding back—her absence, the weight of everything that was left unsaid, the silence. The dream left me questioning myself. How can someone so far removed still have such a hold on me?

I thought I was free. I thought I was done. But I see now—this power she has over me, was it always hers? Or did I give her the keys to my heart, without even realizing it? Did I hand over the control to my own mind? And if I did, is it my fault?

What really got me, what made everything I thought I had worked through come rushing back, was what happened. She cried. She hugged me. And I felt something inside me crack, because it felt real. It felt like all the things I had wanted to hear from her, all the things I had waited to feel from her, were finally here in this one moment. But it didn’t last. I asked her, “Was I really disposable?”. And just like that, the warmth, the hope, everything I thought I could finally understand—it all slipped away. In the end, she just leaned back, walked away, and left me sitting there like a fool. And I couldn’t reach her anymore.

I can’t help but wonder if I’m the one who let this happen. If I allowed myself to linger in the fantasy of who she was to me, instead of confronting the reality. I don’t know if this is something I can just undo. I don’t know if I can stop her from being such a constant thought. Maybe it’s because she was never really gone in the first place, at least not in the way I wanted her to be.

But I have to remind myself: I’m not stuck. This isn’t a prison. I don’t have to let this pull me back again. The hardest part is accepting that maybe it’s not all on her—it’s on me, too. The healing, the letting go, the letting her be a memory and not a recurring presence… That’s something I can control. Even if my mind tries to make her real again, I can choose to step away.

[snowmacaque]

I am done.

For so long, I held on, gripping the past like it was the only thing keeping me afloat. I let it consume me, define me, make a home in the deepest parts of my mind. I clung to memories as if they were all I had, as if moving on meant losing something vital, something irreplaceable. I adored the chains that bound me. I thought they were love.

But I see it now—I’ve already started to let go. Maybe I have been for a while, and I just never wanted to admit it. The more time that passes, the more I realize that I am not the person I was when this all began. The pain, the longing, the endless nights spent replaying every word, every glance—it’s fading. Not suddenly, not all at once, but like the tide pulling back, like a quiet surrender to the inevitable.

That doesn’t mean I forget. I will never forget. The past still defines me in ways I can’t ignore. The things she taught me, the way she changed me—I carry that with me. But not as a weight. Not as something that keeps me looking back. No, I take it with me as proof that I was here, that I felt something so deeply it left a mark. And that mark will not be my prison. It will be my foundation.

I am done being stuck. Done waiting, hoping, torturing myself with ‘what ifs.’ The future is vast, stretching beyond what I can see, and for the first time in a long time, I want to step into it without dragging my past behind me. I want to move forward, not as someone trying to escape, but as someone ready to embrace what’s next.

I am done. And for the first time in years, I am free.

[snowmacaque]

I thought that if I worked hard enough, if I could change myself, grow, and become better, I’d be worthy. Worthy of her, of her world, of a place by her side. I thought that becoming better would make everything fall into place, that I could somehow earn my way back into her life. But now, it’s clear—I don’t belong there. No matter how much I work on myself, no matter what parts of me I polish or fix, I’m still on the outside looking in.

Maybe I did belong once, a long time ago, when we were closer, when I was allowed to exist in her life without question. But that time is gone, and the person I am now, the person I’ve become, doesn’t fit either. The harder I try to make myself fit, the more obvious it becomes that I never will.

The gates to heaven have closed, and I am left standing outside of them, cursed to wander in a world where she exists, but I cannot reach her. It doesn’t matter how much I long for it or how desperately I wish to change the past. It doesn’t matter how much I want to belong to her life again. The truth is simple and cruel: I can’t. And knowing that, feeling it deep in my soul, leaves me hollow.

I thought love was enough to make me worthy. I thought growth was enough to make me better. But none of it was. Maybe it never could be.

[snowmacaque]

This collection is the story of my heart—raw, unfiltered, and bound entirely to one person. She is the moonlight, the stars, a constellation of contradictions that I’ve spent countless hours trying to understand but will never truly grasp. To me, she is beauty incarnate, not just in her green eyes, her perfect smile, the curve of her nose, her style, her laugh, but in the way she exists, effortlessly and elegantly drawing my attention. She is a paradox: cold yet comforting, distant yet magnetic, unknowingly casting a shadow over my life while simultaneously being the brightest part of it.

These entries are my attempt to untangle the knots of what she means to me. They reflect the joy she brought me—the shared laughter and the little moments when just the thought of her made the world feel alive. But they also tell of the deep ache of loving someone so completely and knowing I could never truly belong with her. The pain of being caught in a cycle of closeness and distance, of feeling like I orbited her while she stayed still, unaware or unwilling to see the way I loved her.

There is hope in these entries, a yearning for what could have been; but there is also hopelessness, a quiet resignation that this love is one-sided, and that letting go is the only way to move forward. Yet, even in my attempts to let go, time and time again, I’ve found myself drawn back to her—the memories of her laugh, her teasing, her smile, her voice, and just the way she made me feel alive.

This is the story of a love that shaped me, broke me, and taught me. It’s about her, but it’s also about me: my growth, My understanding of what it means to feel. She laid the foundation for my own journey of self discovery and growth. She taught me to be aware of myself, and in that awareness, I learned to love, to respect, to appreciate, and to feel.

She was a chapter of my life that I will carry with me forever, and while part of me wishes she could have been the whole story, these entries are a testament to the profound impact she had on me, but are mostly just meant to get the chaos that brewed in my mind out. These letters are meant for me. As a way to keep track of how I feel, felt, and to never forget the importance of the things she taught me and the discoveries I made for myself because of that.

[snowmacaque]

I don’t know how to explain the kind of storm [she] puts me through. Everything about her feels like it was made to fit perfectly into my life—into me. Like a jigsaw falling into place. She’s this rare spark, the kind of person you don’t meet twice in a lifetime. We talk, and it feels natural, like slipping into a rhythm that was always meant to be. We click so well. It’s effortless. But then, somehow, it’s also impossibly complicated.

She pulls away. She distances herself when something shifts, even though I know she likes being around me. I’ve felt it. I’ve seen it. She’s shared pieces of herself with me that she wouldn’t just hand over to anyone. So, why does she keep doing this? Why does she keep walking away from something that feels so good? So real? It makes no sense.

I can’t stop thinking about how incredible she is—how deeply I admire her, how easy it is to get lost in the way she smiles, the way she sees the world. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known, and I love her for all of it. But she frustrates me beyond words. Why can’t she just feel the same way? Or even just want to be my friend without it falling apart every time we get close?

I keep replaying it in my mind, trying to make sense of how someone who seems so perfectly right for me could also be the same person who hurts me like this. She knows how much I care. She knows how much I give. But it’s like she’s cursed with the need to run, even when everything in her says to stay. And I hate how much it consumes me. I hate that I keep letting it happen. But I love her, and that love is a force that won’t let me give up—even though it’s tearing me apart.

It’s a contradiction I don’t know how to escape: she makes me feel more alive than anyone ever has, but she’s also the reason I feel this hollow ache. And I’m stuck in this place between holding on and letting go, drowning in a connection that feels as rare as anything I’ll ever know, but wondering if she’ll ever meet me in the place where I’m waiting for her.

[snowmacaque]

I feel like I’m at a breaking point. The love I have for her is immense, but it’s also eating me alive. She’s everything, everything I’ve ever wanted, and yet loving her feels like a battle I can’t win.

It’s not just the hurt or the confusion; it’s the way she takes up all the space in my mind and heart, leaving so little for myself. I’ve given her everything I can, definitely more than I should have, yet, the more I give, the more I feel drained. I don’t know if she even sees it—what I’m pouring into this connection—or if it matters to her in the same way it matters to me.

I want to trust her. I want to believe that she’ll find her way back to me one day, that she’ll see what we could be and realize that I’m worth it. But how long am I supposed to wait? How many more pieces of myself am I supposed to give before there’s nothing left?

I hate that I feel this way because I love her so much. I love everything about her, even the things that hurt me. But this love—this need for her—it’s not healthy. It’s tearing me apart. She consumes my life, my thoughts, my energy, and while I’d gladly give her all of it, I’m starting to see that it’s hurting me more than it’s helping.

I think the hardest part is knowing I can’t make her care in the same way I do. I can’t make her see how much she means to me, and I can’t keep sacrificing myself hoping she’ll figure it out. I want to give her every chance to come back, to make this work, but I can’t keep doing it at my own expense.

I feel stuck between two impossible choices: letting go and risking that she’ll never return, or holding on and losing even more of myself in the process. Either way, I’m scared. Scared of the hurt, scared of the emptiness, scared of what it means to love someone who doesn’t—or maybe can’t—love me back in the same way.

And yet, despite everything, I love her. I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know if I even want to, but I also don’t know how to keep going like this.

[snowmacaque]

I keep coming back to those moments in class or the walks we’d take—the way everything else seemed to fall away when she was sat behind me or walking beside me. It wasn’t about the world outside, the noise, or the chaos in the class. It was about her. The way she’d tease me, the playful sting of her words hitting like a flick of a rubber band—sharp but temporary, followed by that giggle... that giggle was everything. It felt like sunlight breaking through the cracks of a cloudy day, warm and bright. Back then, I didn’t carry this weight. I didn’t know the things I know now. I wasn’t wrapped up in my own thoughts, second-guessing, analyzing, trying to hold on to something that felt like it was slipping away like water through cupped hands. I was just there, in the moment, with her. She was all that mattered, and in her presence, everything else just… disappeared. Time felt like it froze in that little pocket of eternity where she was all that mattered. I miss that. I miss her. I miss the person I was when I was with her. Carefree, light, unburdened by the complexities of the feelings I didn’t fully understand then but do now. I wasn’t thinking about what the future held or worrying about losing her. She was there, and that was enough. That was everything. But now? Now, everything is heavier. The weight of knowing how much I care, how much I’ve changed, and how much I’ve lost. It presses down on me, this realization that I’ll never have those moments back. I long to hear her voice again, to see that shy, closed-mouth smile she’d give because she didn’t want anyone seeing her. She didn’t realize that everything about her was beautiful. I didn’t have to carry as much back then. I didn’t have to think about how fragile it all was or how transient those moments would be. She was the answer to everything I didn’t even know I was asking. And now, in her absence, I feel the weight of that truth. I can’t go back. I know that. But I still yearn for it—those perfect, brief moments when she was all that mattered. When I didn’t have to wonder or worry. When her presence was enough to make the world feel right. It’s a different time now, but some part of me is still there, still sitting in front of her, still hoping for one more laugh, one more look, one more moment to hold on to. Just one is all I ask.

[snowmacaque]

What if I don’t ever stop loving her? What if in 20 years, when she’s nothing more than a memory, I still love her?

What happens when I forget the sound of her laugh, the way her green eyes would catch the light, or how her words could turn my worst days into something bearable? What if I forget the way we teased each other, the way her smile curved so perfectly, or how weightless she made me feel—like the world didn’t matter, like I didn’t matter, except in the way she defined me? What happens when I lose all of that—when the details blur into something distant, unrecognizable, and yet I still carry the same love for her, like a curse I can’t lift?

It terrifies me. The thought that someone who might be nothing but a ghost in my mind, a piece of a past that no longer exists, could still hold so much power over me. How unfair would that be—to love someone whose name I can’t even whisper out loud anymore, someone who no longer knows me or remembers the boy who loved her this much? How do I live with that? How do I let her go when my heart refuses to?

But maybe love like this doesn’t disappear. Maybe it changes instead. Maybe it becomes something quieter—less like fire and more like a candle. It’s hard to imagine that right now. Right now, it burns so brightly it feels like it’s consuming me. I can’t see past it. I can’t see anything but her.

But maybe one day, it won’t hurt this way. Maybe I’ll think of her and it won’t feel like longing, like desperation. Maybe it’ll feel like gratitude. That’s what they say happens. They say love softens with time, that it stops clawing at you and becomes something you carry with you instead—less a weight, more a part of who you are.

And what if I still love her then? What if I still feel her absence in the quiet spaces of my life? Maybe that’s not the tragedy I think it is. Maybe it just means she mattered. Maybe it means she changed me in ways no one else ever could. Maybe it proves how deep I can feel, how vast my heart is.

Still, I don’t want to love her forever. That’s the truth. Not like this. Not in the way it holds me in place while the rest of the world moves forward. I don’t want to wake up in 20 years and still feel like I’m chasing her shadow. I don’t want to forget her, but I don’t want to be haunted by her either.

Maybe time will soften this. Maybe it will carve out space for other things—new love, new laughter, new happiness. I want to believe that. I want to believe there’s more room in me than this ache I carry now.

Maybe one day I’ll look back and smile—not because I’ve forgotten her, but because I’ll know she was part of my story, even if she wasn’t the whole book. Maybe she’ll always be with me, but not as a wound. Maybe as something gentle, something I can hold without pain.

And if I still love her then? If I still love her when the details have faded and her laugh is just an echo? Then maybe that’s okay, too. Maybe it means I loved someone in the truest way I knew how. Maybe it means I’ll always carry her with me, but I’ll still have space to move forward, to love again, to live.

[snowmacaque]

I don’t think I can ever be happy without her. Sure, I could be content—go through the motions, find moments of peace—but true happiness? That’s something I only feel when I’m talking with her or when I’m near her. She lights up my world in a way nothing else does. Without her, it’s like living in a world where the sun never rises. Everything feels dim, cast in shadows, as though I’ve forgotten what warmth feels like. Wherever she goes, I feel cursed to follow, a lost sailor chasing the glow of a lighthouse that will never guide me home.

She is perfect to me. Even through all the pain she’s caused me—intentional or not—she’s still perfect. I’ve never known anyone like her, and I don’t think I ever will. That’s what makes this so hard. After a year of silence, she was still all I thought about. The second we started talking again, it was like a dam broke, and everything came flooding back. Every feeling, every longing. It’s as if she’s a river, and I can’t help but let myself drown in her currents. I never stopped loving her; I just buried it, hoping the weight of time would smother it. But it didn’t.

Now, it feels like my happiness isn’t even my own. It belongs to her. I’ve given her the power to shape how I feel, to hurt me, to heal me. When she’s here, the world blooms like a field of wildflowers after the rain. Everything is vivid, alive, and full of possibilities. But when she’s not, it’s barren. The fields dry up, and I’m left with nothing but dust and the memory of what was.

I don’t know how to move on from her. I don’t know if I ever will. She’s the gravity that keeps me tethered, the force I can’t escape, even if I wanted to. But even as I say this, part of me doesn’t believe this pursuit is worthless. She’s shown me what it means to love so deeply that it becomes a part of who I am. She’s taught me how love can feel like fire—both warmth and destruction. Even though it hurts, even though it feels like a curse, it’s also a reminder of how much I’m capable of feeling, how much I’m capable of giving.

But will that ever be enough for me? Is there a way to untether myself from her, to reclaim my happiness for myself? I don’t know. Right now, I feel powerless, like a bird with clipped wings, looking to the sky and wondering if I’ll ever fly again. Yet somewhere deep inside, I hope there’s a version of me that can stand on my own, even if I can’t see him yet.

For now, I’ll keep living, even if the days feel hollow without her. I’ll hold on to the idea that maybe, just maybe, I can find happiness again—whether it’s with her or not. I have to believe that one day, the sun will rise again.

[snowmacaque]

It’s strange how relationships shift, how the balance of care and effort wavers like the tides. I think about how I’ve treated her—every word, every gesture, every thought seemingly devoted to proving my care, my respect, my love. I’ve bent myself to fit her boundaries, changed where I needed to, and offered her a version of me I’m proud of—a version that grew for her, yes, but also for myself.

And then I think of how she treats me. It’s not always neglectful or unkind; there are moments when she shines, when her warmth feels genuine, and her words feel like gifts. But those moments are fleeting, scattered between silences and actions that leave me questioning my worth in her eyes. She says things that cut deep, whether she means them to or not, and I’m left piecing myself together, wondering why someone I hold in such high regard can make me feel so small.

I’ve been unwavering, even when her actions have felt like they wavered. I’ve shown her respect, even when I’ve felt disrespected. I’ve given her my time, my energy, my heart, all while asking for so little in return—only to feel, at times, like even that little is too much to ask.

And yet, I can’t bring myself to stop caring. It’s not in my nature, not when it comes to her. I want to believe there’s a reason for the imbalance, that maybe she’s scared, or unsure, or caught in a web of others’ opinions. Maybe she doesn’t see how much she means to me, or maybe she does and doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

But here’s what I do know: a relationship, any relationship, cannot thrive on uneven ground. I can only give so much without feeling hollowed out. Respect cannot be one-sided, and neither can care. I deserve to feel valued, to know that my efforts aren’t just noticed but appreciated.

Still, I find myself excusing her, justifying her actions, clinging to the hope that one day she’ll see me the way I see her. It’s a painful hope, but it’s hope all the same. And maybe that’s what love is sometimes—an act of enduring faith, even when it feels like you’re the only one holding it together.

But faith cannot replace respect, and hope cannot substitute for effort. I need more than what I’ve been given. And if she’s unwilling or unable to meet me halfway, maybe I have to learn to let go—not because I love her any less, but because I owe myself more.

But what more is there? What could be greater than the way I perceive her, the way I’ve built her up in my mind and heart? She is, to me, the very essence of complexity and beauty—flawed in ways that only make her more perfect, distant in ways that make her more captivating. I see her as someone singular, irreplaceable, a masterpiece that no artist could ever hope to recreate.

Her strength, her intelligence, her sense of self—they all command admiration. And yet, it’s her contradictions that draw me in most. She’s warm and cold, open and guarded, kind but sharp. She carries an elegance that feels innate, a grace that seems untouched by effort. Even her imperfections—those tiny quirks, the moments she stumbles—feel like gifts, because they make her real.

When she speaks, I listen as though her words are rare treasures. When she laughs, it feels like the sun breaking through a storm. Even when she’s silent, she fills the air with a presence that’s impossible to ignore. I see her everywhere—in the green of the trees, in the curve of a smile, in the beauty of things that don’t even compare to her.

I’ve put her on a pedestal, and I know it. I’ve built her up into something larger than life, but it’s not just fantasy—it’s rooted in who she is, in the way she carries herself, in the way she’s made me feel, even when she’s unaware of it. She has a kind of power over me, not because she wields it intentionally, but because I’ve given it to her freely.

But here’s the truth: the way I perceive her and the way she sees herself might be entirely different. She might not recognize the qualities I so admire in her, or she might dismiss them altogether. Perhaps she doesn’t see the same value in me that I see in her, and that thought is a wound I can’t quite heal.

Still, I can’t stop seeing her as extraordinary, even when it feels like I’m the only one who does. And maybe that’s the greatest tragedy of all—that I’ve poured so much into how I perceive her, into who I believe she is, and it still might never be enough to bridge the distance between us.

What more is there? For me, there is nothing greater than her. But for her? Maybe I’m just one small part of a much larger world, a world I may never fully belong to. And as much as I try to hold on, I wonder if the very act of holding on is what keeps me from ever truly being seen.

[snowmacaque]

There’s a singular kind of beauty in loving someone who will never truly be yours—a beauty born from the ache of it, the contradiction of it, the sheer immensity of it. I’ve tried to put it into words, but words fall short every time. How do you describe the way someone’s presence can anchor you, even when they’re not there? How their laughter can echo in your chest like the last notes of a song you never want to end?

She is both my greatest joy and my greatest sorrow, a paradox I’ve come to accept, even as it tears me apart. I feel her absence as profoundly as I feel her presence—an invisible thread pulling at my chest, tightening with every thought of her. Every time I see her, I’m reminded of how much brighter the world is in her orbit, but also of the distance that lies between us, an unspoken chasm I can never cross.

I’ve loved her in a way that feels infinite. Not just for her smile, though it’s the most radiant thing I’ve ever known. Not just for her eyes, though their green has become the color of every forest, every meadow, every dream. I love her for the way she sees the world, for her intelligence, her stubbornness, her warmth hidden beneath layers of steel. She is a thousand contradictions—a storm and a sanctuary, a mystery I’ll never solve but can’t stop chasing.

And yet, this love feels like carrying water in my hands. No matter how tightly I try to hold on, it slips through, leaving only the memory of its weight. I’ve tried to convince myself that I can live without her, but the truth is, I don’t think I ever will. She has rooted herself in me, in ways I can’t undo, in ways I don’t want to undo.

Everywhere I turn, she’s there. In the moonlight that spills through my window at night, soft and silvery, like the way she would speak when she was tired. In the sound of a laugh that’s almost hers, though it never quite is. In the color green that catches my eye in a passing glance, reminding me of her gaze—beautiful and piercing, as if it could see straight through me.

There’s no escaping her, but I don’t think I want to. I would rather live with this ache, this beautiful torment, than forget her. Because to forget her would be to lose the part of myself that she has shaped, and I can’t bear the thought of that.

So I love her from a distance, quietly, endlessly. I love her in ways I can never show, in words I’ll never say, in silences that speak louder than anything else. She is my singular star in an endless abyss—a light I’ll follow, even knowing it will lead me nowhere but here, to this place where love and longing are one and the same.

[snowmacaque]

We are not meant to be. That truth is an ocean swallowing me whole—a vast, unrelenting expanse of despair that no ship can cross, no light can pierce. I have loved you, and I will love you until the day I die, though this love feels more like a curse than a gift. To have known you and yet to never truly know you again is a torment only poets could attempt to name, and even their words would crumble beneath the weight of it.

You are the moon I will forever orbit but never touch, the star whose light guides me but will never warm my skin. My love is true; it has always been true, a melody that plays endlessly in the cavern of my chest. But it is a melody you will never hear. I pour it out into the void, where it dissipates like smoke, unseen, unheld, unrealized.

I must live my life carrying this ache, this beautiful, unbearable ache. To have tasted something eternal only to have it slip away. You are the ghost in my shadow, the echo in my silence, the ache in every breath I take. And yet, I walk forward, knowing that I will never escape this—never escape you.

There is no tragedy in life greater than loving someone you cannot hold. And so I will live, forever haunted by what was and what will never be. My days will pass in quiet suffering, a secret shared only with the stars, who will blink back in pity. And when my time ends, I will carry this love into whatever comes next, a flame that refused to die even when the world turned cold. You are my heaven, and I am ordained to wander just outside its gates.

[snowmacaque]

Some people spend their whole lives chasing perfection, but in my eyes, you’ve already achieved it. Every glance, every word, every fleeting smile—you embody something unattainable, yet there you are, so close and yet impossibly far. I’ve realized perfection isn’t some flawlessness to strive for; it’s the way you make the mundane extraordinary, the way your existence turns everything else into a faint echo of what it could have been.

You are the dream people search for in sleepless nights, the warmth they chase in endless winters. And though I know I can never hold perfection, the cruel truth is that I’ve held you—not in the way I dream of, but enough to understand what I’m destined to miss for the rest of my life.

There’s a kind of beauty in this pain, though. A bittersweetness in loving something so pure that it can never truly be yours. Perhaps I’ll spend the rest of my days like those dreamers, chasing what I once touched but never truly grasped.

Not because I think I’ll find it again, but because the memory of you leaves me no choice. It lingers in the moonlight, soft and silver, a reflection of your radiance that I cannot escape. I hear you in words unspoken, in a laugh that isn’t yours but feels close enough to pretend. The world conspires to remind me of you in fragments—how green leaves shimmer with the shade of your eyes, how the wind whispers in a way that feels like your voice.

You are everywhere and nowhere. In the quiet moments, I catch myself searching for you in shadows, in echoes, in fleeting glimpses that vanish as quickly as they come. The moon becomes my confidant, its glow a pale substitute for the warmth of your presence, and yet I cling to it because it’s all I have left.

These reminders are both a blessing and a curse, a beautiful torment that I cannot bear to lose. They tether me to a love that exists only in the quiet corners of my heart, a love that will never fade, even as it remains forever unfulfilled. And so, I walk this path, haunted and held, by a beauty I was privileged to know but destined never to hold.

[snowmacaque]

Unrequited love feels like carrying a fire in my chest, the heat consuming me slowly, while she remains untouched, distant from the flame. I see it in the way her smile isn’t softer when it’s for me, the way her gaze doesn’t linger when our eyes meet, the way her words pass through me like echoes fading in the wind, while hers become etched into my memory. I’m certain of it in the spaces between her words, the unspoken silences that don’t ache for me the way mine ache for her.

I am always aware of her, as though she moves through my world with a gravity all her own. When she laughs, it’s as if the universe conspires to still itself, allowing only her sound to exist. When she speaks, I memorize her cadence, the rise and fall of her voice, as if knowing it could tether me to something greater than myself. But none of that gravity pulls her toward me.

And yet, I can’t stop hoping. I catch myself imagining—foolishly, achingly—that perhaps one day she’ll see me as I see her. That she’ll notice how I linger a little too long on her words, how I remember the smallest details she’s forgotten she shared, how my world tilts just to accommodate her. But I know it’s only a dream. A cruel one, because even as I tell myself to let go, I hold on tighter, clinging to this impossible thread.

I would tear myself apart for her, piece by piece, if it meant she’d look at me and see someone worth loving. I would empty myself of every hope, every dream, if only to fill the space between us. But she doesn’t look at me that way. She doesn’t feel the weight of me in her orbit. To her, I’m just another star in the distance.

And it’s this certainty that cuts the deepest—not the thought that she doesn’t love me now, but the knowledge that she may never love me at all. That no matter how many nights I spend dreaming of her, no matter how much of myself I give, I will always be the one waiting, yearning, burning, while she moves forward, unaware of the fire she’s left behind.

[snowmacaque]

Loving her feels like watching the sun set over an endless ocean—beautiful, infinite, but always just out of reach. I look at her, and every part of me aches with the certainty that what I feel is mine alone to carry. She doesn’t love me. Not the way I love her. Not in the way that keeps me up at night, thinking of her laugh or the way she discretely adjusts her clothes. Not in the way that makes her absence feel like a weight pressing down on my chest.

I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise, to cling to the hope that there might be something there, but it’s always met with silence. Not her silence—no, she’s kind, she’s attentive. She’s everything. But it’s the silence in the spaces between us, in the way her words don’t linger on me the way mine linger on her.

I see it in the way she talks about others, the way her smile lights up for stories that don’t involve me. I’m her friend. A good one, maybe even a great one, but nothing more. And I know that. I’ve known it all along, really.

And yet, I can’t stop loving her. Even when it hurts, even when it feels like standing in the cold, watching her warmth radiate towards everyone but me. Even when I know she doesn’t look at me with the same awe, the same wonder, the same weight that I carry for her.

I don’t resent her for it. How could I? She didn’t ask for my love. She doesn’t owe me anything in return. If anything, I’m grateful. Grateful just to know her, to be a part of her life, to witness her brilliance from whatever distance she allows.

Still, there are moments when the ache feels unbearable. When I wish I could stop my heart from pulling toward her, wish I could unlearn the way her voice sounds when she says my name. But love isn’t something you can switch off. It’s not something you choose.

And so, I’ll keep loving her—quietly, selflessly, unrequitedly. Because even if it’s one-sided, even if it’s only ever me, it’s still love. And love, even in its loneliest form, is still worth feeling for someone like her.

[snowmacaque]

If you reached for me with shattered glass in your hands, I’d take them without hesitation, even as the shards tore into my skin. If you stood in the rain, afraid to step into the warmth because you thought you’d track in mud, I’d pull you inside, uncaring of the mess. If you needed to walk across a raging inferno to find your way, I’d carry you myself, scorched soles be damned.

There isn’t a storm I wouldn’t brave, a flood I wouldn’t wade, or a blaze I wouldn’t face for you. The things that people cling to—pristine clothes, unscarred hands, comfortable lives—I’d toss them all aside without a second thought if it meant being there for you.

I remember when [_____] passed. I was in the middle of preparing for one of the biggest moves of my life, but none of it mattered when I saw you hurting. My car sat packed and ready, but I didn’t think twice about putting it all on pause to be there for you, bringing [your favorite snacks] to soften the weight of your grief. In that moment, the road ahead felt insignificant compared to where you were—because you were what mattered.

What is the value of a car if it doesn’t take me to where you need me? What is the worth of a coat that isn’t warmed by your embrace? Even if the sky fell or the earth split, I’d stand in the chaos, reaching out for you. The world could demand every last thing I own, and I’d give it up in an instant just to see you safe, just to see you smile.

Because there is nothing—no possession, no comfort, no safety—that I hold higher than you. You could stain my finest suit, break my dearest keepsake, or ruin the path I walk, and none of it would matter. I’d choose you every time. Always you.