A CONFESSION FROM THE SILENT CHAMBER

I sit at the edge of twilight, where the sky slowly shreds its crimson robe, leaving behind a deep purple stain like a bruise. Here, between the pounding heart and the ache, I begin to write the story of you—for even grief can soften into poetry. This book is an altar where I lay down all the wounds you gave me, not as a grievance, but as an offering. Like a river that willingly lets its stones erode just to keep flowing, I, too, am willing to be broken, just to keep your name alive within the ripples of time.

Our love was like a towering mountain range, magnificent in its solitude, yet its fractures remained hidden from afar. You were the peak I climbed with gasping breath, while I was the valley that gathered all the rain you poured down. Here, in the space between earth and sky, I learned that love is not about wholeness, but about how we remain standing even when the cracks gape wide. Those wounds are the letters you carved into my skin, forming an alphabet only the two of us can decipher. Not the sweet romance of old poets, but a raw language, like a harsh wind sawing through branches. Yet therein lies the honesty: within the wound, no falsehood remains. Like the sea that never lies about its tides, my heart honestly confesses that to love you is to accept the storm as part of the voyage.

On nights when longing grows too heavy to bear, I speak to the stars. They blink coldly, as if to say, "We, too, have burned for millions of years, yet we never complain." So I fall silent, swallowing all the words that went unspoken. This silence is the chamber where we are truly closest—when you are absent, yet never truly gone. Like the moon that still reflects light even after the sun has turned away. Time is a ruthless weaver. It weaves sorrow into a fabric that is sometimes too heavy to drape across the shoulders. Yet within that weave, golden threads are tucked away: moments when your laughter was like the midday sun, or when our silence intertwined like roots embracing beneath the earth. I no longer ask why I must hurt, for the answer perhaps lies buried within the unreadable loom of time.

I am a bird that keeps flying though my wings are broken. Not out of recklessness, but because your sky is the only home I have ever known. And let these broken wings be the proof: that to love you is to choose to stay aloft, even as the wind keeps driving me toward the abyss. If pain is a door, then I have crossed it time and again—sometimes falling, sometimes stumbling, but always finding a new room on the other side. A room where I finally understand: love is not about avoiding the wound, but about having the courage to whisper, "Let it be," while smiling at your reflection in a cracked mirror.

And now, before these words that stand in neat rows like tiny headstones, I write this for you, who will never read it. For our love is a theatre without an audience: only I remain standing on the stage, while you have already left your seat empty. But let it be. Like the sea that keeps singing though no one listens, I will go on loving you in the silence—until these very words turn to dust, and the dust itself is swallowed by the wind.