The Silence Between Us

I think about all the moments

that have led us here -

the laughter, the pauses,

the trembling beginnings

that felt like standing at the edge of something vast

and gentle at the same time.

There is a stillness that surrounds you,

a quiet hum that settles the noise in me.

It isn’t loud,

it isn’t grand,

it’s the kind of peace that sneaks in softly,

like dawn unfolding through a half-open window.

Every time our paths cross,

the air feels lighter.

Even the smallest things -

the tilt of your head,

the calm way you breathe before speaking,

the silence you leave between words -

seem to stretch time in the kindest way.

It’s as if the world exhales

when you walk into it.

I think of all the days

that have carried me to this one,

and how they must have known

that someday I would need a presence like yours -

steady as morning,

quiet as snow,

bright as still water catching the sun.

There is a serenity in simply existing near you.

Not the kind that demands attention,

but the kind that feels like remembering

how to be human again,

how to breathe without rushing,

how to listen to the wind

without asking it for answers.

Your presence is not a storm.

It’s a horizon.

It doesn’t ask, it doesn’t take -

it simply is,

and somehow that’s enough to remind me

that being here,

now,

is enough too.

Sometimes I wonder

if we have always known one another,

not through memory,

but through feeling -

that strange, quiet recognition

when peace arrives

in the shape of a person.

Perhaps in another time,

we sat beneath the same sky

and watched the clouds drift by,

saying nothing,

because nothing needed to be said.

And maybe that same sky,

tired but kind,

looked down on us again today

and thought,

“there they are -

they’ve found the stillness once more.”

When I think of you,

I don’t think in words.

I think in moments.

In the hush between heartbeats.

In the soft clinking of teacups on a quiet morning.

In the scent of rain on the earth

just before the sun returns.

You remind me

that peace doesn’t have to be perfect.

It just has to be present.

It lives in the way you listen,

the way you pause before you laugh,

the way your presence asks for nothing

but offers everything it is.

And when the world turns heavy -

as it sometimes does -

I find comfort in the thought

that somewhere, you are breathing calmly,

unbothered,

a small lighthouse of quiet

keeping watch across the sea of days.

I think about all the lifetimes

that must have taught us

how to carry stillness like this -

how to move gently through chaos,

how to sit beside another soul

and let silence be enough.

And if there are lifetimes yet to come,

I hope they remember this too:

the quiet warmth of shared existence,

the grace of unspoken understanding,

the miracle of finding calm

in the company of another being

simply being.

Because this -

this gentle equilibrium,

this soft anchoring of the heart -

is rare,

and it’s beautiful.

And I think,

if peace could choose a form,

it would sound like your voice,

and rest like your stillness,

and breathe like this moment -

where everything is whole,

and enough,

and quietly,

infinitely here.