Quiet Hour

Dear you,

I still catch myself looking for your truck
when I drive past the park,
hoping you’re out there—
breathing, moving, doing something that feels like yours again.

When I’m in a crowded store,
my eyes wander without permission,
searching faces that aren’t you,
still hoping for just a second
where the world surprises me.

At night, when everything finally slows down,
you find your way back into my thoughts.
I wonder how you’re really doing.
I wonder if the days are kinder to you now.

I tried to reach out once.
I don’t know if the silence meant you didn’t hear me
or if you just weren’t ready to answer.
Either way, I hope you know
there was care behind it.
There still is.

If you could see yourself through my eyes—
just for a moment—
you’d see someone who matters,
someone who leaves quiet impressions behind,
someone far more needed and wanted
than he ever allows himself to believe.

I know how loud your thoughts can get.
I know how convincing they sound
when they tell you you’re alone.
But you’re not worthless.
You were never disposable.
And you are not defined by what she did to you.

You deserve happiness—
not someday, not conditionally.
You deserve love that doesn’t hurt to carry.
You deserve a life that feels like home inside your own head.

I hope one morning you wake up
and something feels lighter.
I hope the voices lose their grip.
I hope you start believing the good things
people tried to tell you all along.

And if one day we pass each other
like strangers who share a history,
I hope I can see it in you—
that you made it through,
that you’re free,
that you’re finally happy.

That would be enough for me.

—Me