There is always something that remains — in the heart, in that secret chamber where the first echo of another being resides.

The first person you spoke to and truly felt — you remember them. The first touch, the texture of their skin, the unspoken tremor between fingers — you remember that too.
Their scent lingers, their language breathes within you; even the first question, whispered perhaps half in fear, half in wonder — “Who are you, really?” — becomes immortal in memory.

That’s all you wish to preserve, isn’t it?
When you gaze at the night sky from your solitary window, trying to draw their face upon the vast silence of your mind — that is love: the fragile architecture of remembrance built against oblivion.

Alas! You cannot forget; you do not want to forget.
There’s a strange vibration when your lips meet — as though the universe itself trembles for a moment, caught between creation and disappearance.

Stranger — you are.
And because you are a stranger, you are lovelier still.
When you say, “I need you,” it becomes the most philosophical bridge I have ever crossed — a bridge between solitude and existence itself.

Overwhelmed, I name it heaven.
And yet, before walking upon that so-called right path of life, there is always hesitation — that trembling awareness that one wrong step might wound the other soul.
You withdraw, not out of cowardice, but out of tenderness — because not hurting is, in itself, a form of love.

And so, the universe continues to unfold — bewildered, beautiful, and infinitely uncertain.