Dear You, (whoever you are, wherever you are)
I don’t know your name yet. I don’t know when we’ll meet—or if we already have, quietly, in passing. But I think about you sometimes. Not in a romantic fantasy kind of way, but in the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s someone out there I can finally be real with.
I want to tell you things—things I usually hide. I want to say, “Some days I’m not okay,” and not feel like I have to smile after.
I want to talk about the weight I carry, the days where my chest feels too tight and my head too loud. The years I’ve survived pretending I was fine, just to protect people who couldn’t really protect me.
I want to say things without being afraid I’m too much, too quiet, too complicated, too heavy.
Because honestly? I’ve had moments where I thought I’d never be fully known. Where even the people who loved me couldn’t see me. Where I poured my heart into empty rooms and got silence in return.
But I’m writing this now because I haven’t given up. Not completely. There’s still this little part of me—fragile, maybe foolish—that believes you exist.
And if we meet someday, I hope you don’t expect me to be perfect. I just want you to stay when I’m quiet. To ask, “How’s your heart?” and mean it. To hold space for my silences, my rambles, my fears.
If you are out there: Please be kind. Please be gentle. Please be patient.
And I promise—I will give you something real. A heart that has been through the dark, but still dares to believe in light. A love that’s quiet, but deep. A soul that will never judge your shadows—because I’ve lived in mine too.
Until then… I’ll be here, trying to become someone who’s ready for that kind of love. Someone who can meet you fully, when the time is right.
Love, Me