Circa 1997

“Some people don’t stay. They set the standard and disappear.”

I met you before I knew what love was,

before I knew what it could cost

or what it could give back.

I was a boy still borrowing confidence,

still learning how to stand inside myself.

And you—

you didn’t save me.

You didn’t promise anything.

You just saw me.

That night wasn’t long,

but it was loud inside me.

You walked with me

like I mattered.

Like I could be chosen

without auditioning.

I confused that feeling for you.

But it wasn’t you I’ve been carrying.

It was the awakening.

You were the first sentence.

Not the story.

I don’t chase your face anymore—

it changes because it isn’t meant to stay.

What stays is what you activated:

my attention,

my tenderness,

my ability to feel without armor.

I lied about my age because I didn’t want the moment to end.

That’s how I know it wasn’t meant to last.

Anything true doesn’t need disguise.

You were never supposed to be found again.

You were supposed to be remembered once

and understood later.

And now I understand.

Thank you for walking with me

before I knew how to walk alone.

Thank you for teaching me

that love doesn’t have to hurt to be real.

I release you

without resentment,

without longing,

without regret.

You were not the destination.

You were the proof

that I could begin.