He used to have this fire inside him—a spark she had fallen for, something quiet yet undeniable. There wasn’t any need for grand gestures or declarations. His energy spoke for itself in small, unspoken ways. It was in how he’d laugh at nothing in particular, how he’d pull her into him with a warmth that made her feel like she was home. That was the man she fell in love with. The man who once lived fully, confidently, without needing to prove anything to anyone.

But time moves differently for people, she thought. While she still woke up with the same passion for life, he seemed to slow down. At first, she told herself it was natural—work, life, responsibilities, they had a way of creeping in. But soon, it wasn’t just the slowing down. It was the absence. The absence of that light, the absence of the smiles he used to give so freely, and the absence of him.

He had always been the man who leaned into life, into her. But now, he sat across from her at the dinner table, absent-minded, swirling a glass of red wine, his eyes distant. He’d blame it on being tired—work stress, long hours, the usual things adults complained about. He’d joke about needing to unplug, how it was easier to get lost in a show like The Wire than to deal with the world outside. She’d laugh with him, but the laughter never reached her eyes.

He’d tell her he was the same man she’d met, and maybe he believed it. Maybe that’s what hurt the most. Because he couldn’t see what she saw—the distance growing between them like a canyon that neither one of them knew how to cross. He would say he was still here, still the man she fell in love with, just a little quieter now. A little more tired, sure, but still him. And yet, the man she knew wouldn’t spend whole weekends in bed, hiding under the covers like a shield from the world.

She’d find him there sometimes, lost in thought, his mind a million miles away. He wasn’t one to talk about it—not the darkness that had settled in, the thoughts that circled in his head like vultures. He thought he could push it away, keep it inside and let it pass. But it didn’t pass. It lingered, took root, and slowly started to consume him. He tried to keep it hidden from her, but she wasn’t blind. She saw the change in him, the way he smiled less, the way he pulled away when all she wanted was to bring him closer.

He had fewer smiles now, fewer reasons to laugh. The smiles he did offer were spent on people he hadn’t seen in years, people who didn’t really know him anymore. With them, it was easier to pretend. Easier to fake being the man they remembered, the man who had fire in his veins. But with her, it was different. She knew him too well, could see through the façade. And that scared him. So he retreated, further and further, until it felt like they were living in two separate worlds, even though they shared the same space.

There was a time when she tried to reach him—tried to pull him back from wherever his mind had wandered. She’d ask him how he was feeling, if there was something wrong, something she could do. But each time, he’d shrug it off, offer a half-hearted excuse about being tired, about needing some time to himself. And each time, her heart sank a little more.

One night, she found herself alone in bed, tears staining the pillow as she cried silently. She didn’t want to wake him, didn’t want him to see her like this. But he did wake, and for a moment, he watched her, the guilt heavy in his chest. He knew this was his doing. The fairytale they had started writing together—the one where they would grow old, hand in hand, where every day was a new chapter—was crumbling. The story they’d imagined was now full of crossed-out lines, pages torn out, the ending uncertain.

She cried for what they were losing, for the love that was slipping through their fingers. And all he could do was sit there, helpless, watching her fall apart while knowing that he was too far gone to fix it. He wanted to be the man she needed, the man she believed in. But he was stuck, trapped in his own mind, unable to move forward, unable to explain why he couldn’t be who he once was.

The truth was, he wasn’t the same man she met, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. He had changed, lost pieces of himself along the way, pieces he wasn’t sure he could ever get back. He wanted to run, to escape the weight of his own thoughts, to disappear onto a freight train and leave it all behind. He was lost in the idea of change, convinced that maybe if he ran far enough, he’d find the part of him that had gone missing.

He saw it in her too—the subtle shift in the way she looked at him. The way the passion in her eyes had dimmed, just a little, like she was trying to hold onto something that was slipping away. She wasn’t the same either. How could she be? She had spent so long trying to pull him back, to bring him out of his darkness, and now she was tired. Tired of waiting, tired of hoping, tired of pretending that things hadn’t changed.

He knew she wasn’t to blame. This was on him. He had gone missing, not her. He was the one who spent his days chasing after memories of what they used to be, trying to relive moments that had already faded. He was the one who had let the space between them grow into a chasm, wide enough to swallow them whole.

She stayed, even as the seams of their love began to unravel. She stayed, waiting for the man she loved to return, hoping that one day, he would wake up from this slump and be the person she remembered. But deep down, they both knew the truth. The man she met was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

Years later, they both moved on, each finding new lives, new loves. He got married, and so did she. They were happy—content, as much as adulthood allowed. They talked about children, about settling down, about the future. But every now and then, when they found themselves in the same room, at some reunion or work event, the old feelings would stir. It was faint, like a long-forgotten song, but it was there.

They would exchange polite smiles, ask each other how they were doing, and for a brief moment, they would remember. They would remember the life they could have had, the mornings that could have been theirs, the love that slipped away. It was unspoken, but they both knew. It could have been them. It should have been them.

But they were happy now, or at least, that’s what they told themselves. Still, every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of her across the room, and for a fleeting moment, he would see the life they never lived reflected in her eyes. And just like that, the fire in him would flicker, if only for a moment.

We often dream of love as something that stays. Not the kind that sweeps in with fire and passion only to burn out in the afterglow, but the kind that leans into you, that becomes a part of your very being. I never wanted quick intimacy, fleeting moments wrapped in sugar and light. No, I imagined someone who would stay through the long, quiet days and the inevitable storms—someone who would hold on when everything else let go. It’s easy to fall in love when the sun is warm, when the days stretch out like a golden promise. But true love, I always believed, wasn’t about the honeymoon. It was about the moons farther away, those that hang low in the sky, casting shadows deeper and more mysterious than anyone cares to look.

We were told, weren’t we, that we were meant to find that someone? That they’d be the first person we’d turn to, our journal in human form, the keeper of every secret and every dream?

We were supposed to write our story across their heart, as if the days would move endlessly forward, unbroken, lasting as long as we did. But sometimes I wonder if I built all that out of nothing more than old movies and soft songs—things that feel real when you’re lost in the moment but disappear when the credits roll. Still, the thought of you and me, in a house with wide windows and a view of the world stretching out before us… that’s the kind of dream I could never let go of.

But reality is different, isn’t it? Some nights we don’t talk about the future, not because we don’t want to, but because we’re too tired of imagining what might be, when what is, is already too much. We find ourselves staying in, not out of comfort, but because it’s easier to hide from the world than to face the disappointments that come with it. There’s something strangely intimate about lying next to coffee cups left cold on the table, under dim lights that cast more shadow than warmth. But even the light of a candle is never quite enough, and sometimes it feels like we’re both waiting for something that never arrives.

I’ve always been drawn to the idea of permanence—long-term plans, promises whispered with conviction. But somewhere along the way, others told us it wasn’t so simple. You close your journal, tired, its pages now worn and blue from the weight of unspoken words. There are chapters you never finished, thoughts you never wrote down. And yet, the ink is still fresh enough to remind you of the distance, of the space between us that grows with every word left unsaid.

What’s your life’s language? How do you make sense of all this? You never quite managed, did you? You carry your tired eyes like scars, the bags beneath them heavy with more than just lack of sleep. You’ve been waiting, hoping for someone who would stay, someone who wouldn’t vanish with the daylight. But love has always been fleeting for you, like a change in the weather—something you can feel in the air but never quite hold onto.

Old stories on new roads, that’s what we are. Begging for a moment of peace, just a break from the relentless pace of life. You wonder if it’s too much to ask for someone to simply stay, to be there when the silence is louder than the storms. But deep down, you know, as I do, that love is never simple. It’s full of the things we don’t say, the promises we don’t keep, and the dreams we can’t quite let go of.

And yet, despite the heartache, the weariness, the unspoken fears, there is still a flicker of hope. A soft light in the distance, something that whispers, “Maybe, just maybe, it’s worth it.” Because love, for all its pain, for all its losses, has never stopped shining. Even in the darkest moments, there’s a part of you that still believes in that house with a view, in those distant moons that bloom quietly, waiting for someone to see them.

Yes, love can tear at the edges of your mind, unravel your peace. It can hurt in ways you never imagined. But even now, with all that weighs on us, I still love the idea of love. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going. Enough to hold onto, until someone finally stays.

Imagine, if you will, a river. At first glance, it seems eternal, the same flowing body of water, a constant presence weaving through the landscape. But is it the same river? If you dipped your hand into it today, and again tomorrow, would the water touching your skin not be entirely different? The river’s essence—its flow—remains, but the water is never the same. It changes, moment by moment, carrying with it the past, but becoming something new, over and over again.

Now, imagine someone comes along, someone who knew the river years ago, when the rains were heavy and the banks were flooded. They stand at its edge and say, “Ah, I know this river. It hasn’t changed.” They speak with certainty, recalling their memory of its wild, swollen state. But their certainty is an illusion. For though they may remember the river as it was, they are blind to what it is now—calm, perhaps, or narrower, or flowing more freely. They see only the memory, not the river in its present form. They are stuck in what was, refusing to acknowledge what is.

Now consider how this feels to the river, to you. You are not the same person you were last year, last month, even yesterday. Like the river, you flow through time, carrying traces of your past self, but ever-evolving, responding to the terrain of your life. When someone insists you have not changed, it’s as though they are dipping their hand into the memory of your waters and expecting to feel the same current. They mistake the echo for the song, the shadow for the tree.

But to be truly seen—to be acknowledged for who you are now, in this moment—requires presence. It requires that the person before you lets go of their memory of you and opens their eyes to the reality of your transformation. How strange it feels when someone, with their mind wrapped around your past, insists they know you, when in truth, they have missed the entire evolution of your being. You might wonder if they ever truly saw you, or if they were only seeing their idea of you.

And so, like the river, you flow on. Whether others choose to see the living water of your present self or cling to the river of their memory, that is for them to reconcile. But your essence, always in motion, does not depend on their recognition. It depends on the eternal flow of becoming, which is where your true nature lies—here, now, ever-changing, and always new.