She is the woman I love—not in fleeting moments, but with a stillness that sits deep in my chest, a knowing.
She's not mine—not by lines drawn on paper, not by rules the world enforces. She lives in a space that doesn't serve the fullness of who she is.
And still, she stays. Not from weakness, but necessity. There are reasons, tangled and real, and I understand. I don't need her to rush.
In my depths, I am certain her fire burns too. Not in passing glances or half-spoken words, but in the quiet, deliberate ways that love is spoken without sound.
...