They heard my poems and imagined her — someone with gentle hands, a name that sounded like petals. They thought love in my voice must belong to a girl, because I wrote it tender, because I wrote it true. I never told them otherwise. How could I explain that it was you — your laugh caught in my lines, your quiet folded into every pause, your name living softly behind every metaphor? You were never loud about it, never needed to be. You just stayed — in the way my words warmed, in the way my heart leaned whenever I wrote. So they kept searching for her, while all along every love I ever wrote was simply you.