The Space Between Us

Dear You,

From the very first day I met you, I think I already knew…
you would never truly be mine.

I don’t know how I knew. Some feelings arrive without explanation, like a quiet bruise forming beneath the skin. Maybe I have a habit of breaking things before they can break me, or maybe I rehearse loss so it hurts less when it finally comes. Or maybe I’m a psychopath who loves pain, because who else listens to sad songs on happy days? Either way, the knowing stayed.

We became friends first, before whatever this is that happened between us. And in some strange way, that comforts me. because at the end of the day, I still get to have you, if not the way I once imagined, then at least as a friend. A best one, at that. I suppose that says something about me too: how I want to hold on, how I want to make people mine, even when they were never meant to be. It isn’t something I plan. It happens quietly, instinctively. If I like you, you belong to me long before you ever realize it.
Do I want you to be mine in the way stories promise happy endings?
I wish I had an answer.

You are one of the best people I have ever met, and yet the word forever sits uneasily on my tongue. That hesitation feels cruel, like wanting to keep you without daring to offer certainty. But how can I promise a lifetime when we haven’t even begun? We stand still, afraid to move without knowing the end, even though nothing in this life ever tells us how it will end.

You have made me happy in ways I didn’t expect, and sad in ways I didn’t prepare for. Loving you feels like holding a rose too tightly, beautiful, fragrant, and painful all at once. But how could there be a rose without thorns? Maybe pain is not a sign of something being wrong, but simply a sign of something being real.

Sometimes I wonder if I love you, or the version of you I keep hoping you’ll become. You never do what I expect, and that confuses me. You say I am the best person you have ever met, and yet I hesitate to say the same. That thought alone makes me feel small and unkind. Maybe honesty is selfish. Or maybe pretending certainty is worse.

You told me once that you hate the thought of me being with someone else. But is it love that keeps you close or the comfort of knowing I won’t disappear? You hesitate because you’re unsure if I can give you what you want in life. And I keep wondering when we’ll speak about what I want too. Maybe our paths run alongside each other only for a while, close enough to touch, never meant to merge.

You once told me you’d never stop me from chasing my dreams, that I could be fully myself with you. But if I chose forever with you, would that still be true? Would I have to soften my dreams so yours could grow? Would I slowly begin to compromise, then justify it, then blame someone innocent for the life I didn’t live?
The thought of not achieving my dreams frightens me more. Because what if choosing you means betraying my younger, ambitious self, the hardworking child who wanted the world? What if I mistake comfort for fulfillment, and stillness for love? Would choosing you mean losing myself?

I feel safest with you. Mostly myself with you. And still, I don’t know if that is love or simply familiarity wrapped in tenderness.
What even is love, really?
If I could see my life through someone else’s eyes, maybe I’d understand. But I can’t. And maybe that’s why the question of us will always remain unanswered.
So for now, I’ll leave you where you seem to belong…
not in my hands,
but in my heart,
as something soft and unfinished.
A beautiful dream I once held,
and never quite learned how to wake from.

— Me