I don’t know when it started— this quiet ache in my chest, this gentle pull toward the spaces where your name still echoes even if you’re nowhere near. Maybe it was the way you laughed that one time, like the world finally gave you permission to breathe. Or maybe it was the softness in your eyes when you looked at me like I was something you didn’t want to lose— even if you never said it. I am a yearner. A wanderer of almosts, a collector of maybes, a poet of the things that never made it past the edge of my tongue. And it’s stupid, I know— how I replay moments like they owe me something, how I trace the outline of a memory as if it could turn solid again, as if missing you hard enough could bring you back. But that’s who I am. A heart that leans forward even when it shouldn’t. A soul that reaches out even when the world pulls away. A person who still waits, somehow, for a door you never promised to open. And I don’t blame you. Love isn’t an obligation. But longing— longing is a language my body learned on its own. It’s the way my hands still tremble at the thought of yours, the way my chest tightens when I remember what it felt like to be seen by you, even just once. I am a yearner. Not because I’m weak, but because I know what it means to feel something real— even if it wasn’t meant for forever. So I’ll keep your memory in the small, soft place of me where silence feels like company and hope knows its limits, but stays anyway. And maybe one day, I won’t ache like this. Maybe one day, my heart will stop looking for you in the faces of strangers. Maybe one day, this yearning will finally loosen its grip. But tonight? Tonight I speak your name only in my mind, let the longing spill gently, and let myself feel everything I’ve t