I think some people are born
already missing someone.
Not in the way you’d miss a face,
or a voice,
or the warmth of a hand you’ve held—
but like your soul wakes up
looking for a song
it’s never heard,
yet somehow already knows.
Maybe that’s why
I loved love stories.
Maybe that’s why
I memorized every ending
where they ran back,
where they chose each other,
where somehow
love was enough.
I thought mine would be too.
Instead,
I learned that loving someone
and being loved
aren’t always the same thing.
Then one Tuesday,
without warning,
my phone lit up.
“Hey, stranger.”
Three words.
That’s all.
But my heart…
my heart acted
like it had been waiting years
to hear your voice again.
You felt impossible to explain.
Not a stranger.
Not just a friend.
Not even just someone
I could fall in love with.
You felt familiar.
Like standing somewhere
I’d never been,
yet somehow
remembered.
You said,
“Give in to me.”
I laughed.
I said,
“You’re crazy.”
You smiled anyway.
“You’ll see.”
So I ran.
Again.
And again.
Not because I didn’t want you.
Because I did.
Because I’d never felt
so peaceful
standing this close
to another soul.
And peace
can be terrifying
when all you’ve ever known
is surviving.
You’d tell me,
“I’m gonna start a fire.”
“You’re gonna melt for me.”
I’d roll my eyes.
“No, I won’t.”
“Come here.”
“My heart is set on you.”
“If I can’t have you…
I’ll stay alone.”
I never knew
whether to believe you.
Years blurred together.
I stayed.
You stayed too—
just not with me.
We built lives
that looked right
to everyone else.
Except ourselves.
And somehow…
you always knew.
I’d be sitting on the bathroom floor,
trying to cry quietly
so no one would hear.
Then my phone would buzz.
“Hey… are you okay?”
How?
How did you always know
the exact moment
my heart cracked open?
I’d call.
You’d listen.
I’d cry.
You’d say,
“Give in to me.”
And I’d whisper,
“I’m scared.”
Because I was.
Scared that this feeling
was bigger than us.
Scared that if I reached for you,
there’d be no going back.
Scared that maybe
you really were
the home
I’d been searching for
my whole life.
I laid beside someone
who never felt like home.
And every night,
I wondered
what your heartbeat
sounded like
when the world went quiet.
That’s the part
no one tells you about.
Loving someone
you aren’t supposed to love
doesn’t feel exciting.
It feels like drowning
with your eyes open.
So I walked away.
I told myself
it was over.
Then…
ding.
“I know we’re not supposed to talk.”
“But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Every day.”
“Every night.”
“I know you want to make it work.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Until the day…”
“You finally give in to me.”
Months passed.
I stared at our messages
more times
than I’ll ever admit.
One night,
I finally typed,
“I have a confession.”
Funny how
one sentence
can change
the rest of your life.
Now here we are.
Four years.
Four kids.
A farm.
A thousand ordinary mornings
that somehow still feel
like miracles.
And sometimes
I’ll catch you looking at me
the same way you did
all those years ago.
Like you never stopped waiting.
Maybe souls
really do find each other.
Maybe timing
is just another way
the universe teaches patience.
Or maybe…
it was always this simple.
You spent years
asking me
to give in.
I thought
that meant
falling.
But all this time…
you weren’t asking me to fall.
You were asking me
to come home.
