To the One Who May Never Know

To the One Who May Never Know,

It was honestly the best feeling—

having the guy I like blow-drying my hair.

It was my first time experiencing something like that.

The first time I ever let a man cut my hair.

And the way his hands moved,

the way he touched every inch of my skin…

It felt like a safe haven.

Despite all the efforts I’ve made to show him how special he is—

to let him know how much I appreciate the sense of safety and calm he gives me—

he still says he feels like a robot,

like something inside him stopped working after his heart was broken.

But what I really want to say is this:

I didn’t come into his life to fix him.

Not for who he was, or who he became after that pain.

I came to be there for him.

To remind him that he matters.

That he’s not alone.

That he doesn’t have to carry it all by himself.

The pain he carries—it’s natural.

There’s nothing broken in him.

Nothing that needs fixing.

Just a heart that once loved deeply… and got hurt.

It’s sad, yes.

Unfortunate, even.

But maybe— just maybe— it’s also a hidden blessing.

Because somehow, through all that ache,

life brought him to me.

And I wish he could see it that way.

I know it’s not easy to love again after giving your whole heart to someone

you once believed you’d build your life with.

I can only imagine the weight of those memories—

how loud the silence must feel when love leaves.

But I didn’t come to replace her.

I didn’t come to erase the past.

I came to be here now—

to show him that he still matters,

that he’s still capable of being loved,

that he’s not alone in the after.

And if he could let me in,

even just a little…

maybe he’d see:

this could be something real, too.

I understand—because it happened to me, too.

I’ve carried the pieces of a heart that once believed in forever.

And after everything, I made a quiet promise to myself:

If I ever fall in love again—

with someone who makes me feel safe,

calm,

comfortable,

and at peace,

even just for a moment—

I will be better.

I will love more gently.

More patiently.

More kindly.

I won’t judge him for his past.

I’ll see him for who he is now—

for the strength it takes to carry himself

through each ordinary day despite all that he’s endured.

I don’t want to force him to open up.

I’ll wait.

Until he’s ready.

Maybe he doesn’t realize how much I truly mean to him.

Not yet.

But I can feel the contradiction between his words and his actions.

He says he doesn’t care.

But the way he looks at me…

the way he’s present in the smallest moments,

in the way he touches, in the way he listens…

It speaks louder than he knows.

And yet—

every time he says he doesn’t feel love for me,

that he doesn’t see me as his woman—

it’s like a slow knife cutting through my heart.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the tears.

I can’t stop myself from asking:

Why am I letting this happen?

Why am I staying, when I have every right to walk away?

But the truth is—

despite the pain—

I keep choosing to stay.

Because somewhere inside him,

I sense it…

that quiet, unspoken longing for me to stay.

And yet,

fear keeps growing inside me.

What if, one day—

without warning—

he no longer wants me here?

What if I wake up and find that he doesn’t need me anymore?

That thought…

that quiet, creeping thought—

is the scariest thing that haunts me.

Over and over again.

The feeling of getting used to our little routine—

waking up to breakfast and coffee, sharing quiet small talks,

exchanging sweet kisses, warm hugs,

and peaceful sleep beside each other—

It became something I looked forward to every week.

Or every other week.

A rhythm my heart quietly depended on.

And I still miss those late-night conversations,

a little drunk,

talking about cooking,

about life,

about nothing and everything.

I remember how attractive I found him

when he opened up about his wild younger days—

the funny stories, the reckless adventures, the fire in his eyes when he spoke.

Especially when he talked about the military,

about carrying the heaviest weapon—

as if it were just another day.

And his stories about living in a foreign country,

trying to build something for himself, dreaming big, taking risks.

I miss that version of him.

And the version of us that felt so alive in those moments.

Fast forward to now—

watching him as a father to his amazing, adorable son—

It’s one of the sweetest things I’ve witnessed.

There’s something so grounding in the way he shows up as a dad.

And maybe it’s because I’ve always longed for that kind of presence…

someone steady, someone warm.

So when he talks about his son, or when I see that softness in his eyes—

I can’t help but admire him more.

Not just as someone I care for… but as a man.

And maybe—without knowing it—

He fills a quiet space in me.

One that’s always been searching

for safety, for stability, for someone who knows how to love with intention.

I’ve always wanted a son of my own one day.

And watching the way he loves his…

It makes that dream feel even more beautiful.

So if the day ever comes—

when my heart finally breaks into tiny, quiet pieces, when it gets tired…

so tired that it goes numb again—

even though I swore I’d never feel that way again,

not after him—

And if he still can’t say he loves me—

my only wish is this:

That he finds happiness.

That he finds peace.

Even if I’m left behind—

damaged, broken—

I don’t think I could ever hate him.

What’s more likely, and far more tragic,

is that I’ll end up doing things to make it easier for him to leave.

Maybe I’ll push him.

Say things I don’t mean.

Act cold.

Just enough for him to believe he should let go.

And he’ll never know… that I did it not out of anger, but so he wouldn’t feel guilty.

He won’t see that as I let him go,

I’ll be carrying the pain quietly—

tucking it away with me as I walk away from the one person

who made me feel something real.

Even if it wasn’t enough to make him stay.

—

With everything,

Me