Layout by: Kathrina Embile
Published by: Aprilyn Sado
Date Published: March 17, 2025
Time Published: 9:09 AM
Category: Prose
Theme: The kind of love that goes beyond silence.
Words doesn’t always come so easy, there are times when my thoughts seem too large to be condensed into any sentences—no matter how long, when I am left with nothing else but the heaviness of all I cannot say. In these times, I do not speak—I stretch my hands to reach for yours, my fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeves, a silent plea in the way I slightly wrinkle the ends of your clothing.
Stay. Let your fingers remain intertwined with mine, let the warmth settle, let it be here even when words are not.
My words have been rusty, dulled by the exhaustion that lingers deep in my bones. I am now strained, no longer writing as easily as I once had—as if the barrier between my heart and my head began to grow taller. The things I write about you, I used to write without any need for thought, but now the letters feel rare; the words I mean to write with my pen, I have to search for in the back of my head. It is not that I have less to say, never that. Only that my ability had been watered down by the passing of weighted days.
March had not been kind to me. I say this when it has not even been halfway through the month, knowing that whatever remains of it will not be any softer. It will pass; everything does, but I am sure pieces of it will stretch out and linger ‘til April, embroidering their marks on my being—in the way I take a step back before I speak, the way I find myself retreating from the world.
My hair has grown longer, much more than I last remembered, yet I don’t cut the split ends. It feels too familiar, comforting even. I cannot bring myself to remove what has stayed with me all this time, even if it is damaged, even if I should.
Most of my time I spend alone, though my solitude is never genuinely empty, for you occupy the cracks between my thoughts. Having your name scattered all over every thought keeps me steady, a grounding force for myself in the midst of self-imposed exile. To call you a small happiness would be a betrayal to what you truly are. You are far from being a fleeting joy, a passing warmth. You are something greater, something that lingers despite the absence of words.
When words fail me, I will search for ways to let you know. I will whisper to the leaves outside my window, letting the breeze carry each syllable in hopes of my voice reaching you. I will let the moonlight bear witness to the love I have yet to verbalize.
I love you. Even in silence, even in the spaces my words cannot reach. I love you. I will find my way back to the words that will tell you so.
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