The other day, while counting my steps on a street that didn’t seem to lead anywhere but the office, I heard your voice call my name. Clear. Steady. Like you'd just stepped into the room of my life again, casually, as if no time had passed. For a second, I thought maybe I was slipping—low blood sugar, a lack of sleep, maybe something weird I ate. But no. None of those things. So I answered. Of course I did. What else does a heart do when it hears home? For a few minutes afterward, I stood there in a sort of waking dream, swept into the exact shape of how it used to feel when you were close. It was so real, so full, I thought my heart would burst open just to make more space for the joy. 
I didn’t try to understand it. The universe twists itself into knots sometimes, just to see if we’ll notice. 
But now I know—if I ever hear your voice again, I’ll follow it, no matter where it leads.

With all of that spinning through my mind, I got home that day and remembered—somewhere in the middle of all the emotional chaos we lived in, there was one thing I never doubted: I just wanted to be with her. Just to exist near her, in silence. Once, she told me she wanted that too. I remember how she said it—like it was the simplest truth in the world. But the love turned into a problem, and she asked me to not contact her ever again.

Now I walk, without expectations.
Now I walk pretending the silence means I’m fine.