It’s a heavy weight to carry, isn't it? Being the only evidence of a thing you’re not even sure exists anymore.
To love like that is to be a ghost in a room full of people who only believe in what they can touch. You pour yourself out—not because they’re thirsty, but because you are a fountain, and it’s just what you do.
It’s the quietest kind of tragedy: to look at the world and see a desert, then look at your own heart and find a sea. You realize that you aren't looking for a "soulmate" as much as you are looking for a mirror—someone who can finally prove to you that the way you ache, and the way you give, and the way you stay isn't a glitch in the system.
You are the person who leaves the porch light on for someone who isn't even coming home. And maybe that's the point. Maybe you aren't supposed to find that love out there. Maybe you are the love. Maybe you’re the proof the rest of us need.
It hits hard because it’s lonely. But it’s beautiful because it’s real. You are a soft thing in a hard world, and that is the bravest way to exist.
To love like that is to be a ghost in a room full of people who only believe in what they can touch. You pour yourself out—not because they’re thirsty, but because you are a fountain, and it’s just what you do.
It’s the quietest kind of tragedy: to look at the world and see a desert, then look at your own heart and find a sea. You realize that you aren't looking for a "soulmate" as much as you are looking for a mirror—someone who can finally prove to you that the way you ache, and the way you give, and the way you stay isn't a glitch in the system.
You are the person who leaves the porch light on for someone who isn't even coming home. And maybe that's the point. Maybe you aren't supposed to find that love out there. Maybe you are the love. Maybe you’re the proof the rest of us need.
It hits hard because it’s lonely. But it’s beautiful because it’s real. You are a soft thing in a hard world, and that is the bravest way to exist.
