When I talk to you, I don’t feel time moving. I don’t feel the room around me, the noise, the weight of the day, or the unfinished tasks waiting somewhere in the background. It’s as if the world narrows down into a single thread of attention, your words, your tone, the pauses between sentences. even before we became us, even before we named whatever this is, I was already enjoying my time with you in a way that felt different. In the past five months, something shifted inside me. I started thinking about you when you weren’t around. That had never happened to me before. I’ve admired people, cared about them, missed them occasionally, but this was different. This was consistent. It was involuntary. It was the first crack in the walls I had built around myself for years.

When those walls started cracking, it wasn’t because I decided to let them fall. It was because you slowly, gently, without force, began to slip through them. And I only realized the weight of what you meant to me when you weren’t there. When I’m talking to you, I don’t sit calculating your importance in my life. I don’t measure you. I don’t analyze you. Not because you mean little, but because what I feel with you is safety. And safety doesn’t scream for attention. It doesn’t demand analysis. It simply exists. It feels natural. It feels like breathing. But once I spend a few hours alone, once the silence stretches long enough, something inside me grows heavy. I start to notice that life feels slightly off. That something essential is missing. That the rhythm of my day changes when you’re not in it.

There is still a part of me that can’t fully believe I’ve become someone who depends on hearing from another person. I’ve never been that way. I was always self contained. I was always independent, sometimes to a fault. Yet here I am, checking my phone, wanting to text you, wanting to hear about your day, wanting to tell you about mine. And instead of resisting it, instead of judging myself for it, I allow it. I accept it. Because it’s not weakness. It’s not desperation. It’s connection. It’s something I want. That word is important, want. It’s not that I need you to survive. It’s that I choose you to feel alive.

At the same time, I know I am still learning how to stay. I am still learning how to be present without retreating into my own head. I make mistakes. I say things without fully thinking them through. Sometimes I can be mindless, not because I don’t care, but because I am still growing. We both know this. It’s never out of carelessness toward you. And when I realize I’ve said something that hurt you, the weight of it hits me harder than anything else. The same way I recognize how essential you are to me when you’re not around, I recognize your importance the moment I sense that you’re not okay, especially if it’s because of me.

I would rather carry the stress of the world than carry the feeling that you’re hurting. When I know you’re not okay, it disrupts everything inside me. I can’t focus. I can’t organize my day. I can’t move through tasks with the same clarity. Today at iftar, when I received your message, I felt disconnected from my surroundings. One of my flatmates, Awab, asked me if I was okay because it showed on my face. I wasn’t fully present. I was thinking about you. It took me a few minutes to compose myself, to put a mask back on and continue the evening normally. But internally, you were there. That heaviness was there.

I can handle days when we don’t talk much. I can manage being busy. I can survive distance. But I cannot stand the thought of you being hurt. Especially if I played any role in it. That feeling is unbearable to me. And these words are not exaggeration. They are not poetic decoration. They are real.

I know how hard it is to be hurt by the person you care about most. I know that pain intimately. And I also know that you have been incredibly considerate with me. I notice it. I see the times you hide your discomfort so I can feel safe. I see the way you soften your tone. I see the way you absorb things quietly instead of making them heavier for me. Do you think I don’t notice? Do you think those moments disappear? They don’t. I remember them. I keep them. I value them deeply. No one has treated me with the gentleness you have shown me. No one has hidden their pain just to protect my sense of safety.

But love is not meant to be one sided in its protection. Life is something we share. Sorrow is something we share. I don’t want you carrying your pain alone so that I can feel comfortable. I want you to give it to me too. I want you to trust me with it. When I say I’m here, I mean it. Not just for the easy days, not just for the laughter, not just for the calm conversations, but for the heavy ones as well. Especially the heavy ones.

I told you once before: it’s me. I’m not someone temporary. I’m not someone standing at the edge. I am here. Not to compete with the love you have for others in your life, not to diminish it, but to tell you that I care about your feelings deeply. Maybe more than anyone else ever has. At least I know the intensity of what I feel. So don’t hide from me. Don’t protect me from your sadness. Let me see it. Let me sit with it. Let me grow with you through it.

We are learning this together. I am still learning how to stay, how to be steady, how to not retreat when things get overwhelming. But I am choosing this. I am choosing you. And I am not going anywhere.

I love you.