One day

One day I will run out of stories. I fear that day sometimes. For now, there is always one more thing— a memory, a thought, something stupid I suddenly want to tell you. And the more I tell you, the less afraid I feel. Still, there is so much you haven’t seen. Not because I hide it. There is only so much of a person that fits inside chats and calls. You haven’t seen my silences, my restlessness, the way I want to touch life before it passes. Or the more primal parts of me— desire, curiosity, the things I want to feel rather than explain. Parts I don’t want to tame just to be easier to love. And I wonder— will you want to meet them? Will you have parts like that too, still waiting for you to discover them? You know yourself, but maybe only partly. So do I. Some things we only learn by living them. And that scares me. What if I want to go where you don’t? What if the life that makes me feel alive is not the life you want? What if we change? There are too many maybes. But there is one thing I don’t want to be a maybe. The connection. If love ever finds us, I want it to be deeper than wanting each other. Deeper than primal desires I want to feel known & seen without feeling owned. Free, but close. Changing, but not becoming strangers. Something almost spiritual— two people seeing each other clearly, and still wanting to come closer. I don’t know what we will become. I only know I like this flow— how one thought becomes another, how hours disappear, how I don’t want to stop talking to you. Maybe it will fade. I hope it doesn’t. And if one day my old stories end, I hope we look at all the life still ahead of us and think— come on, let’s make some more.