We have known each other for years, though we have never met.
We have talked, yet you and I have never spoken.
From the smallest words, I have drawn a strange recognition, as though your silence knew me better than any confession.
Around you, I am the closest I have ever been to myself, yet I wear a mask with my hands bound, waiting for you to lift it.
I remain haunted by the absurdity of it: this devotion to a presence so rarely seen, so scarcely verified.
My heart insists on a mutual current, some invisible thread, yet my mind interrupts it with the thought that I may not cross yours.
Still, I imagine the day we truly meet.
And I fear it because only then will I know whether I have longed for you, or for the cruel comfort of a love that exists only in waiting.