Dear anônimo,

sometimes i think of him the way one thinks of an old house: i don't live there anymore, but i know exactly where everything used to be. the feelings don't scream, they echo. they are scattered through the silences, the "what ifs," the conversations that never really ended. what we lived wasn't small, even if it wasn't long. it was intense in the way only unfinished things can be.
distance was always more than kilometers. it was an invisible space between what we felt and what we were able to truly live. we moved closer with our hearts and stepped away because of reality. and in that, we learned how to miss each other while we were still there, how to lose something even before saying goodbye.
there were simple moments that became too big to forget. looks that said more than words, conversations that felt like shelter, promises that were never made but somehow still existed. with him, i felt that strange sense of recognition - as if something in me knew who he was before i could understand it.
now, what remains is a quiet longing. it doesn't hurt the way it used to, but it weighs something. it's a memory that shows up without asking permission, in songs, in long nights, in thoughts that surface when everything is silent. i don't know if he feels the same, and maybe that doesn't even matter anymore. what matters is that it was real to me.
he was part of a story that didn't end the way i imagined, but it passed through me all the same. and even with the distance, with time, with what never happened... something stays. a feeling that doesn't ask to come back, but also doesn't leave. it simply exists, melancholic, kept within me
i love u so much