He knows I love him. I know he loves me too. But we don't say it anymore. Not after everything. Not after the way things drifted between us like waves pulling away from the shore, gently but with a force we never saw coming. Because maybe love isn't always about saying it out loud. Maybe it's about waiting. Waiting for a message that may never come. Waiting for the moment when time pauses, even just for a second, so we can find each other again. I don't know if he waits, too. But I wonder if he does. And maybe, just maybe, that's what love is. The quiet. The waiting. The not saying, but still feeling.
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