They say love is about touch.
About presence.
About eyes that meet across the same room, hands that accidentally brush under sunlight, lips that fumble into a kiss under streetlights.
But what do they know?
They've never loved someone through a screen.
They've never whispered " I miss you " into pixelated silence.
They've never stayed up until 3AM staring at a typing bubble that never turns into a reply.
They've never fallen in love with someone who understood their silence,
better than anyone had ever understood their words.
She didn't enter my life like a thunderstorm.
There was no cinematic rainfall.
No crash of fate.
No Sakura blossoms falling in slow motion as our eyes met in a crowded corridor.
No.
She came in gently.
Like the first snow at 3AM.
Like a breeze that wraps around your skin before you even realize you're cold.
She didn't demand space.
She filled it.
Soft.
Unexpected.
Unforgettable.
Her name was Serin.
And she had this quiet way of saying my name like it mattered.
Not like it was just a sound…
…but like it was a story.
Like it was something she read over and over again, carefully, like she didn't want to miss a single line.
She didn't just hear the things I said.
She listened to the pauses.
The hesitations.
The gaps where my voice stuttered and died, where the things I couldn't say tried to slip through.
She listened to the pain I tried to bury between words.
To the silence I thought I'd learned to survive in.
In a world that was always too fast, too loud, too much,
Serin was quiet.
Serin was stillness.
Not the kind of silence that made you feel lonely.
The kind that made you feel safe.
We never thought we would meet in person.
Not even once.
Just…
Wi-Fi signals.
Pixelated screens.
And a connection that somehow felt truer than anything I'd ever known.
But I'm glad...that actually we met, atleast Once.
We talked for hours that bled into mornings.
We laughed over things that no one else would find funny.
We turned playlists into confessions.
Named songs after memories.
Her voice, soft, sleepy, real — was the background music to my world.
We never said "forever."
But somehow… we meant it.
It wasn't perfect.
God, it was messy.
Sometimes the call would drop mid-laughter.
Sometimes we'd type and delete a dozen times before saying anything.
Sometimes we'd fall asleep while waiting for the other to reply.
But it was ours.
A fragile little universe built between midnight messages and hearts sent through poor connections.
And I swear, in that small, flickering corner of the world, I felt more loved than I ever had in real life.
And maybe…
Maybe that's why it hurt so much when it ended.
Because love doesn't always break because of lies.
Sometimes it's dismantled.
Quietly.
Cruelly.
By people who think they know what's best.
By parents who never learned to listen.
By rules written in a language our hearts never learned to speak.
One day, she was there.
And the next…
She wasn't.
Not because we fought.
Not because it faded.
Not because we didn't love each other enough.
But because she wasn't allowed to stay.
And I understood.
But understanding doesn't mean it hurts any less.
Now?
Now I live in her echoes.
In the seconds of my day where her voice used to be.
In the songs that still carry her laughter like a ghost in the harmony.
In the silence that feels too loud, even when the city is wide awake outside my window.
I don't hate her.
I never could.
I never will.
I just…
miss her.
And every night at 2AM —
When the rest of the world is asleep,
And my memories won't stop screaming,
I whisper her name into the dark.
Like a prayer never meant to be answered.
"Serin…"
A name.
A promise.
A wound that never learned how to heal.
Will she ever hear it again?
Or was I always meant to echo alone?
I didn't know…
I didn't know a single misfired text,
A single delayed reply,
Could become the most painful goodbye of my life.
And yet —
Here I am.
Still waiting for her.