Me, You, and Some Sunsets

There are moments when the world quiets, when everything stills, and I can almost hear my own heartbeat as if it were a song written in a language only you and I understand. I don’t know if it's the way the air feels at dusk, heavy with longing, or the way the sky sighs into itself, spilling colors so soft, they feel like whispers. But in these moments, I think of you. And I think of me. And I think of all the ways the universe keeps pulling us toward the same sunsets, no matter how far apart we may be.

If you’re reading this and feeling it press against your ribs like a familiar ache, then you already know. You are the silence before my favorite song begins, the quiet between words that mean everything, the space where my thoughts find rest. And me? I am the girl who was always too much of something—too quiet, too careful, too lost in her own world. Until you. Until the way you look at me made me believe that maybe being too much was exactly enough.

Some loves are loud. They announce themselves with fireworks and grand gestures, with names written in the sky and voices that carry across oceans. Ours is not that kind of love. Ours is the kind you feel in the pause between words, in the way my hand lingers half a second longer when I pass you something, in the way I remember things you only mentioned once. It’s in the way you never say certain things out loud, but I hear them anyway.

And then, there are the sunsets. How is it that something so simple, so inevitable, can hold so much meaning? I think about how many times the sun has set on us, how many times we’ve stood beneath the same sky, miles apart, yet watching the same light fade. It feels like a promise, one the world keeps making for us, one we never have to speak out loud. Maybe that’s why I find peace in them—because every evening, when the sky blushes gold and then sighs into blue, I know you are seeing it too. And for those few moments, we are looking at the same thing, breathing in the same quiet wonder.

There is a kind of magic in loving someone from a distance. Not just the physical space that separates, but the unspoken distance between what we feel and what we say, what we long for and what we allow ourselves to have. I have felt that magic in every moment that you have looked at me like I am something worth keeping. I have felt it in the spaces where words should be but aren’t, where confessions tremble on the edge of silence, waiting to be set free.

I wonder if you know how much space you take up in my world. If you know that sometimes, when I laugh, it’s because I remember something you said weeks ago. If you know that I notice the way your voice softens when you speak of things that matter to you. If you know that I am always, always paying attention—to the way your hands move when you talk, to the quiet in your eyes when you think no one is watching, to the way you exist in a room like you belong there, even when you don’t believe you do.

And yet, there are things I will never say. Things that live in the quiet spaces between our conversations, in the way I hesitate before saying goodnight, in the way I sometimes look at you and then look away just as quickly. There are truths that feel too delicate to touch, too sacred to hold in the open air. So I let them live in the way I write, in the way I let my words carry the weight of what my voice cannot.

Maybe one day, I will tell you everything. Maybe one day, I will turn to you, just as the sky begins to bleed into gold, and I will say all the things I have only ever whispered to the wind. But until then, I will leave them here, tucked between the spaces of Me, You, and Some Sunsets.

Neta.