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It has been eleven years, and I still do not know how to speak about you without feeling something in me shift. In the moments when your name crosses my mind without warning, I find myself talking to you as if you had only stepped into another room. You were gone long ago, but the love and the hurt have never learned how to follow time. I try to imagine what you would think of me now, after all this time. Eleven years of growing, of changing, of learning how to live in a world that continued without you. There are things I wish I could show you, things I wish I could say, moments I wish you had been there for. There are so many things I have become, and so many things I am still trying to understand. I think about the way you used to look at me, like I was never something you doubted. I wonder if you would still recognize me in the same way. You once told me, “You are everything that I am, what is there for you to be afraid about?” I did not understand it then, not in the way I do now. Back then, it felt like comfort. Now, it feels like something you left behind for me to hold onto. I hear you in those words when fear finds me, when I hesitate, when I forget myself. I miss you in ways that arrive quietly. In ordinary days, in passing thoughts, in the smallest moments that no one else would notice. And somehow, even after all this time, loving you still feels the same. Steady, present, unchanged. Even with all this distance between then and now, missing you feels like something that has never learned how to end. M. | April 2026

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He lets me choose where and when I soften. There is no asking, no silent expectation pressing against my ribs, only the gentle understanding that I am allowed to lay things down, piece by piece, in my own time, as if he knows I have spent too long being everything all at once. He does not take my strength away. It stays with me, familiar and guarded, but around him it loosens, as if I no longer need to hold it so tightly. And I fear what I might become without it, how easily I could be hurt, but still, I let it happen. The pressure I have learned to live with begins to dissolve in his presence. I do not know whether to be grateful or afraid, for in its absence I am left with a stillness I am not used to, an unfamiliar softness against my own skin, like something I was never meant to keep for long. There is no force in the way he loves, only an intimate, sweet yearning. That is what terrifies me most. Not the breaking, not the falling, but the gentleness of it. The way he reaches parts of me I have kept hidden, doing so with care, as if he understands that even light can overwhelm when you have lived too long in the dark. He is light filtering through leaves, finding me where I did not know warmth could reach, reminding me I am allowed to feel the sun, even if only for a moment. He is my komorebi, and I do not know how to stand beneath it without trembling, as if some part of me is already learning how to miss it. M. | komorebi April 2026

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I hope you chew your food slowly because you are learning how to savour the taste again, not because your eyes and your chest are still heavy with tears. I hope you grow your hair again because you once loved it long, or keep it short simply because it feels like you, not because some distant part of you is still hurting in ways you do not speak of. I hope you enjoy your midnight drives because you love the silence of the road, not because you need somewhere to scream, where no one could hear you, without worried faces finding you. I hope you stay a little longer in the shower, soft with yourself, not sitting on the floor and letting the water fall just to drown your tears, as if they could take the pains off you. And I hope, in the quiet way healing comes, with no one noticing and nothing certain, you begin again, slowly, tenderly, even if your hands are still trembling, even if your heart does not quite believe it yet, even if you have to learn to live with yourself all over again. M. | I hope you stay April 2026

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I spent nights turning over meanings, wondering if a word existed to describe you and me. But every word I reached for felt either too small or far too grand, and we were always somewhere in between. Perhaps I will spend the rest of my life searching for the right way to define us, only to come up short every time. But you? You were never hard to define. You were always just one word, one soft, aching syllable. Love. And maybe that is the beauty of it, how something as fleeting as us can still linger in the heart like a favourite song long after it ends. I might never fully fathom what we were, but I know how it feels, like sunlight through a window on a late afternoon. Brief. Golden. A little sad. And still worth everything. M. | cosmos April 2026

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Each April, I meet myself among the fragments I thought I had buried. Then there is him. He asks for nothing and does not try to fix me. He keeps his hands open, steady and unafraid, as though loving me has nothing to do with mending and everything to do with staying. His gentleness is warm, almost unbearable, for I had sworn to keep my distance. I wonder if he knows what it means to love something broken, how the past lingers, teaching me to hesitate even when something good stands before me. But he does not turn away. He remains calm as April light, patience as something that needs no proof. And yet, April still feels the same. It has not forgotten, quietly resenting what was lost. I lie here, waiting for the pain to ease, unsure if my hands know how to hold what does not hurt. But he stays, and somewhere between fear and longing, I begin to wonder if hope might remain here too, fragile, uncertain, yet quietly choosing to remain. M. | Me, April & its broken things April 2026

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Love is restless, unsettled by uncertainty, often fractured by the weight of the dead past, and in a world like this, it can end before it ever begins. It should have been simple. That is what I keep telling myself. Love is patient, isn’t it? Love trusts. It waits, it stays, it believes. It is meant to feel steady, something that does not slip through your hands, something that feels like a place to rest. But no one tells you that love is also afraid. Afraid of timing, of being too much or not enough, of the silent distance between two broken people who are still learning to heal. Still, something in me wonders if love could really disappear, or only waits somewhere beyond reach, persistent in ways I have yet to understand. And perhaps the right person was never meant to complete me, only to challenge me to become whole on my own. M. | of songs & home April 2026

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"If it hurts, it’s okay to be upset. Do what you need to do, take your time. But tell me, tell me exactly when it hurts, what it is that hurts you. I will be here. Always." He said it so simply, as if it were nothing, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be upset, to feel, to admit where it hurts. No one had ever spoken to me that way before. No one had ever asked me to name my pain instead of hiding or enduring it. I think that was the moment something in me shifted. Not all at once, not enough to break down the walls I had built so carefully, but enough to let something unfamiliar slip through. Something quiet. Something dangerous. Something that felt a lot like the beginning of falling, not because the walls came down, but because for the first time I realized someone was willing to stand outside them and wait. I told myself it was nothing. That it would pass. That whatever had moved in me would settle back into place if I just left it alone. But even then, somewhere deep inside me, I knew this was the kind of feeling that would linger long after I had convinced myself it meant nothing. And the idea of me hurting him in the end terrifies me in ways I can’t name. M. | walls & clouds April 2026

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