My love, I have tried—unsuccessfully—to reduce you to language. To something I could hold still long enough to understand. But you refuse that kind of containment. You are not a thought I arrive at— you are what interrupts thought. There are moments—quiet, unremarkable ones— when I feel you most clearly. Not in grand gestures, but in the way the world shifts slightly as if making room for you even in your absence. I have known admiration, desire, attachment dressed convincingly as permanence— but this is something far less obedient. This does not ask for permission to exist. It does not wait for certainty. It does not negotiate. It simply is— with a kind of quiet authority that makes everything else feel provisional. You have altered the scale by which I measure things. Time, especially— it behaves differently now. An hour with you carries the weight of memory, while days without you pass like something unfinished. And still, I hesitate to call this love— not because it is lacking, but because the word feels insufficient, overused, careless in the mouths of those who have never had to mean it. What I feel for you resists ease. It sharpens me. It demands presence. It exposes every false version of myself I once thought convincing. And yet— if there is any certainty I trust, it is this: If there exists a place in this world where I am most undeniably myself, it is somewhere in relation to you. Not possessed. Not defined. But revealed. So I will not promise you forever— forever is a word too often spoken by those who do not understand time. But I will give you something more difficult: My attention, undivided. My truth, unsoftened. And whatever this is— this force that neither of us fully controls— I will not turn away from it. Not now. Not while it continues to choose us. Ever yours, in a way that does not end neatly.