Modern Love Letters

I have never been good at telling people how I feel in real time - not directly, especially in romantic situations. When I was much younger, I would simply stay silent - but yearn ferociously, loving quietly under the radar. Yet this does not mean my love was not there, quite the opposite - because I spoke less, I absorbed more about them - every minute detail imprinted into my mind. I struggled to contain all that raged within me, afraid that whimpers of it would escape or, even worse, be noticed.

Later, driven by the desire to connect, I began to infer how I felt. Inference felt safe because there was room to move back, to have plausible deniability. And so, I danced in this liminal space, breathing life into subtleties. I felt most alive twirling between the lines, and in many ways, it became a language in itself - for me and for others like me.

As I moved through life, I became much more direct with my words - intentionally so, shaped by the experience of harrowing loss. I didn't want those I loved to ever be unsure of how much they meant to me.

Very recently, I wrote a piece from my heart, and perhaps within it, a subtle admission the person would understand - and already knew. In a different conversation a little while later, they mentioned being curious about how people viewed them in passing. So, I sent them the piece I had already written and published. While I still felt nervous and a little squirmy - borderline skittish - because of some of the descriptors I had used, I wanted that person to know how beautiful they were in my eyes, just as they existed. That I saw them - all of them. I always have. I just didn't know how to say it at the time because I was a little scared - okay, terrified - and very embarrassed. I would often blush just thinking about saying something in the dreamy poetic way I longed to, then decide against it.

In many ways, I was built for the age of love letters - where feelings weren't rushed, where words were chosen with more care because written messages weren't instantaneous, where longing lingered in the ink.