I think we were kind of beautiful, you and I. Not perfect, definitely not eternal, but beautiful in the way two strangers can collide and suddenly feel less alone in the world.

Our conversations were flowy. endless, winding, filling ( although I am not sure I ever allowed you to say much, because I hogged most of the conversations ). I thought maybe this was the rare kind of meeting that turns into a life.

But then came the wall I could never climb. I had nothing to fight with, and I did not want to fight either. The years I carry are written into me, carved by time, softened by experience. And when you looked at me, you saw the years as a warning sign, not as the map of the woman I’ve grown into. It stung, tracing my own timeline, measuring how much longer my body might still hold the promise of children.

I wanted you to see beyond it to believe in what sparked between us, in the way we laughed, in the comfort of being seen.

And the cruelest part?
I knew, from the minute I told you my age, that we would never stand a chance. The fear in your eyes was hilarious to be honest.

And when you told me you were sad about the decision, all I said was, “It’s going to be ok.” I didn’t say that because I didn’t care. It was because I understood: I couldn’t ask someone to stay if they had already walked away in their heart.

And so I let go. Not because I didn’t feel, but because I did.

Because I couldn’t carry both my feelings and your fear ( How strong is this statement! I should print it on a t-shirt:) ).

But I hope one day, when you remember me, it’s not the number you see.

It’s the way you looked at me the minute I walked into the apartment on a Friday eve, and what you felt.

You saw my heart that night. And I have been glowing since.

I want to be seen like this, every God given day!