A vintage still life painting of a quill pen in an inkwell, open book, and scattered papers on a wooden desk bathed in golden light from a window.

“I keep writing about you. As if ink could hold you closer than my arms. As if words are gonna burn through. As if I could rewrite the ending into something sweeter. I keep writing about you. Because this love in my heart is too large for ribcages to contain. Too big to be said in a sentence. Too heavy to stay locked inside. I keep writing about you. As if I'm trying to fill a void. As if I'm deluding myself that you’re not absent. As if letters could bring you to me. I keep writing about you. Until your name becomes a language only I can understand. Until the papers turn into a graveyard, for all the things I never said. And I’ll keep writing about you. Because silence kills me. Because writing about you is like breathing. I can’t force myself to stop.” See more