Have you ever met someone you couldn’t pretend not to notice? Someone who pulls your attention like gravity. Your eyes find theirs from across a room and something in you reacts before your mind can catch up, like recognition without a name. A need to know who they are, even if you don’t understand why.
A wanting so complete the rest of the world blurs. But they say—not yet.
So you do the slow thing. The careful thing. You take what they give you and you don’t reach for more. You study the pieces of them, puzzle piece by puzzle piece, until the picture starts to click into place. And you realize it’s beautiful.
And not just the good parts. The broken ones too. The anxieties, the old scars, the dark and fragile things that make a person whole. Especially those parts—so you know what needs to be held gently, so it doesn’t break open again.
And then one day, not yet becomes yes, tonight.
So you show up at their door with your eyes closed and your arms outstretched in the dark, because for once you want to believe in something simple. You want to believe you can trust another person with your body, with your softness, with your hope. You want to believe they’ll guide you and not let you fall.
And they don’t let you fall.
When you finally hold their face between your hands, you smile—not with possession, not with conquest, but with reverence.
And when the time comes to ask if you’re overstaying your welcome, they say—not yet.
So you stay a little longer. You let your nervous system relax. You let your mind get quiet in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. You let yourself believe, just for a moment, that you’re safe. That you’re wanted. That you can exist without bracing for impact.
And then those moments become memories—because some people leave marks on you that stay, whether they do or not.
Because that’s the part no one warns you about. That some people don’t just pass through your life. They leave something behind in you that doesn’t leave when they do. A before and after. A standard your body will keep reaching for long after your logic tells you to move on.
And now you’re left with the memory that proves it existed, and the ache that nothing that good is permanent.