I wasn’t searching.
Not for love,
not for saving,
not for someone to make sense of the noise.
I had made peace with the quiet.
The kind that doesn’t ache anymore—
just hums low in the bones,
like the sound of wind through old trees.
I needed nothing.
No fixing.
No thrill.
No fireworks to wake me up.
I was already awake.
Already whole.
And then…
there you were.
No entrance music.
No grand design.
You didn’t fill a void—
you revealed a room I didn’t know was there.
You didn’t complete me.
You just made me softer.
Wider.
Still.
You didn’t rush in.
You appeared.
Like the last line of a poem
that had been writing itself
since before I was born.
I didn’t fall in love with you—
because there was nothing to fall into.
You were already there.
In the air.
In the stillness between my thoughts.
In the calm I had built around myself.
And yet somehow—
you fit.
Not as a missing piece,
but as a secret layer
beneath everything I thought I understood.
So no,
I never fell in love with you.
I met you
when I was already standing.
Already whole.
Already free.
And that’s what made it real.
You were not what I needed.
You were what I never knew
was possible
once I needed nothing.