The Things I Never Said Out Loud

There are stories that do not begin with a first meeting, but with a feeling-soft, unnamed, and persistent. Like rain tapping gently on glass in the middle of the night, refusing to be ignored. This story is one of them.
I did not write this book to explain what love is. I wrote it because there were moments-fragile, almost invisible-when love stood still in front of me, unspoken and undecorated, asking only to be remembered. I failed to speak then. But I won't fail now.
These pages are not confessions. They are quiet places. Rooms I once entered with someone who never truly left. Here, I place every unsaid word, every glance that carried more than I could bear, every silence that held a thousand soft screams. I place them gently, not to be mourned, but to be held with care.
You may find yourself in these words. You may remember someone, or something, or a version of yourself you thought had disappeared. That is my only wish-that in reading this, you feel seen. Not for your completeness, but for your tenderness. Your ache. Your attempt.
Because love, at its core, is not just about holding on. It's about what remains long after we've let go.
And so this book is not a beginning or an ending-
it's a door, slightly open,
to a room we've all walked through
at least once in our lives
with trembling hands and a heart that dared
to feel everything
all at once.