Since sixteen,
I have never blown out a candle
without you in my heart.
Every birthday wish,
every soft flame trembling before me,
I have sent your name into the smoke
like a prayer that only I could hear.

At first it was innocent—

a teenager’s hope,

folded between frosting and laughter.

But years later, I still lean forward,

still close my eyes,

and every flicker of flame

becomes another chance to call you closer.

Now it has become something holier.

In quiet chapels,

I light a candle before Jesus’s statue,

watch the wax melt like longing,

and ask God to hold you in His hands—

or maybe to place your hand in mine.

From birthday tables to altar steps,

from laughter to silence,

I have carried this flame for you.

It feels almost holy,

the way love has stretched across time,

from the glow of birthday candles

to the steady flame of faith.

And each year, with every spark I set alive,

I ask for the same thing:

You.

And still, after all these years,

my wish remains the same:

that someday, you’ll know

you’ve been loved

in every light I’ve ever lit.

Always searching for meaning in the small things,
Nights spent dreaming while the world sleeps,
Taking chances even when they scare him,
Hearts he touches remember him,
Often quiet, but full of thought,
Never losing hope, even when it’s hard,
Yearning to leave a mark that matters.

I should have walked away
the moment you clutched my one mistake
like a weapon,
forgetting the hundred quiet offerings
I laid at your feet
the patience,
the laughter,
the ways I stitched myself
into your broken edges.

But I stayed.
Because I was holding onto
the single soft thing you ever gave me
a tenderness so small
yet I watered it with my whole heart,
until it grew large enough
to shadow your hundred cruelties.

And maybe that’s the tragedy of me:
that I loved like a lighthouse,
burning myself down to keep you safe,
while you stood on the shore,
counting only the moments
the light flickered
never the endless nights
I kept it alive.

Some people
walk into your life like they own it
leave their coat on the chair,
their laughter in your walls,
their scent in your pillow.

And then one morning,
they’re gone.
Not a fight,
not a storm,
just…
gone.

You clean the chair.
You wash the pillow.
But the walls
the walls keep the echo.

Funny, isn’t it?
How someone can be temporary,
but the way they break you
doesn’t check out when they do.

I asked you if you were leaving.
Not because I didn’t know—
but because I couldn’t feel the ground
underneath the word goodbye.

You said,
“Yeah. Why?”
And I saw it in your eyes—
that same hesitation I carried
like a weight behind my ribs.

I asked again,
"When are you leaving?"
You gave me a month.
I asked again,
"When are you leaving leaving?"
Because dates are never what I want.
I want to know when the absence begins.
When the presence stops feeling like mine.

You said,
“December.”

I turned to walk away,
trying not to feel like a child
begging for a hand to hold
without ever reaching.

But then—
“Erm.”
A syllable caught like breath on a thread,
pulling me back.
I looked at you, waiting for the unravel.

You said,
“You still have two weeks with me.”

Like a gift.
Like a wound wrapped in ribbon.

Two weeks—
as if time ever listens when you ask it to slow down.
As if memory is gentle.
As if a goodbye with both hands
could ever be enough.

I smiled,
not with joy,
but with the ache of knowing
some people arrive
and leave
without ever needing to touch you
to leave fingerprints
all over who you are.

And I waved—
like a child
still believing
maybe, just maybe,
you’d stay
a little longer
if I looked back
long enough.

I miss you.
More than I want to admit.
But when I see you
when you’re actually there,
in front of me
my whole body just… shakes.

Not like butterflies.
Not some innocent, nervous crush.
It’s deeper.
It’s panic and grief twisted together
like my body doesn’t know
if it should run toward you
or escape.

I love you.
I don’t even want to,
but I do.
And it terrifies me.
Because you hurt me.
You know you did.

You shattered the version of me
that trusted you,
that saw the good in you
and held it like it was safe.

You broke me,
and I still want to feel close to you.
Isn’t that tragic?

My hands tremble when you walk by.
My chest tightens like a warning.
And still—
some part of me reaches for you,
like a flame that doesn’t know
it’s already been burned.

You do know.
You have to.
You looked me in the eye
when you let go.

I pretend not to see you now.
Pretend I don’t still feel everything.
Because it's easier
than looking at the person
who left me bleeding
and walked away.

And the worst part?
You still live in me.
In the shake of my hands.
In the silence I carry.
In the way I look for you,
even when I beg myself not to.

So yeah…
I miss you.
But I’m scared of you now.
And I don’t know
what haunts me more
what you did to me,
or the fact
that I still wish you’d hold me.

You were just my physics teacher.
But you weren’t just anything.

Tall. Hunched back.
Nerdy in the most beautiful way —
Soft-spoken, kind, eyes that listened.
The type of man I didn’t know I’d fall for
until I did. Quietly. Completely.

I sat there watching you teach about gravity
while feeling it pull inside me.
How could something so invisible
feel so undeniable?

We never touched.
Never flirted.
You never crossed a line —
but my heart did.
Over and over again.

I cared.
More than a student probably should.
Not because I was foolish,
but because you made me feel
safe.
Seen.
Understood.

And maybe I wasn't supposed to.
Maybe I’m not supposed to still.

But our souls —
God, our souls
feel like they brushed shoulders
in a hallway the world can’t see.

In another life,
you’d have asked me how my day was
outside of a lesson plan.
I’d have told you about my poems
and you’d smile like it meant something.
Like I meant something.

But in this one…
You were the teacher.
I was the student.
And everything I felt
stayed locked behind my ribs.

Still, you were
everything I dreamed of in a man.
Everything I didn’t know I deserved.

Even if nothing ever happened —
I still think
a part of me
will always love you
for being who you were
in a world that said you couldn’t be mine.