Scribbles of star.

Time has carried the months away one after another. And he still keeps the shells. In a small box in his drawer where all of it still lives - the shells which she picked up for him to keep, the old letters he never found the courage to send.  He keeps it all shut, not out of fear, but because he knows opening it too often, would tear the parts of him he’s spent trying to hold together. Yet at some nights, when the silence feels heavier than usual, he takes it out.  He reads the words he once wrote, the words full of love, of grief, of longing, of all the soft, desperate things he never had the courage to say out loud. Some nights, the words feel like a stranger’s. Other nights, they feel like home. He holds the shells like tiny bones from a past life. None of it is precious, Not to anyone else. But to him, its a proof that it wasn’t all a dream, that he didn’t make her up, that everything was real, once and he was capable of it and someone gave it back, even if it was just for...

PROLOGUE  From the very beginning, the boy believed that the thing called love had to be earned. Well he wasn’t born thinking that way, of course. But life has a cruel patience in the way it teaches you lessons you never asked to learn. For as long as he could remember, it was just him and his mother. She wasn’t a bad woman she never was. But there was something hollow in her gaze when it fell on him, something tired in the way she said his name, something distant in the way she spoke of her dreams as if they had died the day he was born. He worshipped her anyway. Every small kindness she gave, a faint smile, a hand brushing his hair out of his face when she thought he was asleep, the way she caresses his hair, the way she pats him while he fall asleep in her arms, the tiny tiny chocolates she used to buy while she goes to for the groceries just to see a smile on his little face, the gentle kisses she places on his face while he is in bed, the way she used to sing for him and make ...

You never asked me, what I love most about you, But if the question ever came, I’d say your eyes Not just for how they look, But for how they saw me. Your eyes, they understand the language mine  have always whispered  The soft, wordless things, born in the spaces between  glances and silence. Not loud, Not obvious  but honest in a way only someone, who's known the ache would recognize. You didn’t need to ask, you just looked, and somehow you heard everything  Which I never said out loud. Where others only saw a face, you saw a story. Where others met my gaze and turned away, you stayed long enough to listen to what silence had to say. No one ever really tried To read the torment. The hollow ache, the quiet grief that doesn't scream, but just lingers. No one stayed long enough to notice the tired light behind my eyes, the small, trembling flicker of hope Which I was too afraid to name And which I didn’t dare speak of not out loud, not even to myself. But you, Yo...

I don’t know why,  but you felt a little closer today. Like the air was holding  something familiar like it remembered you. and somehow, so did I. Not in a loud or dramatic way.  Just in the quiet details.. A song, I hadn’t heard in a while. A word, that sounded like something  you used to say. Even the way the sky looked - made me pause.. I caught myself smiling, then missing you  in the very next breath. Like my heart remembered,  how to feel you  before my mind caught up. But sometimes, late at night  in the sudden stillness, your name shows up not like a wound, but like a song I once knew  all the words to. The need for you, It consumes me. Not just in the lonely hours But even in the morning hush. It rises like tides, And I'm drowning In a silence  that still carries your name. -H