The words I write are not meant to be read; they are meant for me to understand myself.
Words, seemingly simple, have turned into leaden stones in my hands. This silence... heavy, like an abyss, suspended in the air like an overfilled cloud. And here I am, standing before the screen, searching for those elusive words.
Words that, deep down, I know will never carry the weight of what I feel.
But where are they? Why are they so impossible to grasp?
Perhaps the time I spend crafting this response is the time I needed to comprehend what she understood long ago. She found the words.
Perhaps she searched sooner, perhaps she searched with more resolve. Perhaps I was not honest enough with myself to see that all I wanted was an escape.
But life is not an escape. Life is a succession of paths, and I must have chosen wrong, getting lost in silence.
Each word drags me deeper into the awareness of what I've lost, and also of what I've willingly let slip away.
I could answer her now. Yet I'm caught in a whirlwind. I reread her words, seeing her there in that message—alone after all this time, after everything we've been through. An image of us forms, but it isn't clear. It wavers, blurs, like a memory with fading edges. And yet it's real. I can almost hear it. And there's that silence again. The silence of unsaid words. The silence of gestures never made.
Why didn't I act earlier?
Why did I wait, hesitate, retreat time and time again?
Was the distance I clung to ever real, or just an illusion—a shield against feelings I could not express?
The truth stands there, sharp and unforgiving: I didn't know how. And this truth shatters me. She had the clarity to give words to what had become obvious to her.
She understood. She understood long before I did. Why was I so afraid to act? Perhaps I feared that closeness would bring pain, that attachment would mean vulnerability. Or perhaps I never believed this situation could truly be real. Perhaps, as always, I underestimated the weight of action.
I think back to that evening—the last one. I can still see the room where we were, the warm, almost ordinary atmosphere, filled with laughter, silences, glances.
Everything I needed was right in front of me, and yet, I did nothing. I stood there, a spectator, incapable of crossing that threshold. Our exchanges were light, almost carefree. The world around us seemed calm, serene. But inside, I carried a weight I hadn't dared to lay down.
I didn't move. No gesture, no words. At that moment, silence didn't feel like a prison. It felt like fragile peace, a fleeting stillness where nothing needed to be said. But therein lay the problem.
If silence offers peace, it can also be a retreat. And I got lost in it.
I didn't seize the moment. It was as if everything had been laid before me, as if she was offering me a chance without explicitly showing it. A silent invitation—to finally become who I should have been. But I couldn't answer. I stood there, watching that possibility drift away.
Time passed, along with my failure to act. Why didn't I take her hand? Why didn't I take that step that could have changed everything? It's clear now—it was my last chance. And I let it slip away. Like morning mist dissolving in the sun.
I see her again. She seemed calm, serene. But was it a mask? Was she waiting for me to make that gesture, to cross that decisive line? She gave me the chance to change things, but I chose immobility. I chose to watch.
Perhaps because I was afraid. Afraid of what I might find. Afraid to face my own fears. Afraid of love. Afraid of being vulnerable.
And now, what can I say? What can I write that isn't a lie? I wonder, in this silence, if my words will carry any meaning. If my response can ever measure up to what she offered me. No, I didn't act when I should have, and now this silence crushes me a little more each second.
I begin to draft my reply, but already I know it won't be enough. My words, however sincere, won't repair what I've broken.
Good evening.
I'm doing well, thank you.
Thank you for your reply and for the sincerity with which you've shared your feelings.
I'm feeling many things myself right now... a little sad to realize that what I hoped to build with you didn't end as I wished.
I reread my words. They sound like those of a man trying to convince himself, but they already ring false. They sound like a timid farewell, a promise of a future that has no future. I didn't act before, and now I see it wasn't just about timing. It was about regret.
And this regret will never leave me.
There are moments when we think love is a reward, a treasure to be earned. But no. Love never waits. It's like the sea—retreating only to return. But only if we don't close the door, if we don't turn away, if we don't let the sand settle, heavy and fixed.
Now, I understand: love is never still. It is fluid, thriving in shared moments, in open gestures.
And that's exactly what I failed to do—open up. Open that door, that path, to what we could have been.
To what we are not. And which now escapes me forever.
The truth of love isn't found in waiting or in the nostalgia of "what ifs." It lies in the present moment—in what we dare, what we embrace, what we live.
This silence, this abyss I now gaze into, has taught me: love isn't in waiting. It is in action. And in that action, there are losses. Irreparable losses. But therein lies the lesson.
When we learn to love, we also learn to accept what slips through our fingers, what we failed to grasp.
Because love, like everything in life, has its time. And I let mine slip away