Whispers of us

02/04/2026

The world was different back then.
It was less precise, more obedient to instinct and we moved through it as though we had already memorized its limits.

I remember. You used to sit beside me while I worked, not helping, not distracting, your presence steady enough to lean a life against. And we did not speak much.
You knew my moods before they reached my face. I would feel your attention shift toward me and realize only then that something in me had changed. That was how we loved: by noticing.
There was a certainty between us that would seem arrogant now. We believed permanence was the natural state of things. We believed the gods were distant, busy elsewhere, uninterested in the devotion of two people who asked for nothing beyond continuance. We were wrong about that.

I remember the first disruption as a pressure in my ears and I think you felt that too, because your hand tightened around mine once, instinctive. We did not say goodbye, because that would have required admitting separation as a possibility.
When they intervened, there was no punishment delivered aloud. Just an alteration, a rearrangement of paths, a decision made without consulting us. One moment we were aligned with the future, the next we were being rewritten into different directions, stripped of context and reassigned to bodies that would not recognize what they were missing.

What followed was confusion, not grief. Grief requires memory. We were sent forward without it. Still, something remained. A residue that would later masquerade as longing. A pull that would survive centuries disguised as coincidence. When we met again in other lives, we would feel it immediately and mistrust it just as quickly, unsettled by a closeness we could not justify.

But before all that—before loss learned how to repeat itself—we were simply together. Untouched by urgency, unaware of what was about to happen, alive inside a time that had not yet learned how to end us.

That is the life I remember most clearly.

All rights reserved. (B.E.)

02/03/2026

I write of you as one writes of a condition, not a person, because whatever this is did not ask my consent and does not behave like affection ought to. It settled itself inside me with the confidence of something that has been here before and knows the way better than I do.

There are hours when I am seized by the certainty that I have already failed you once, though I cannot recall the offence, only the weight of it, the way guilt sometimes precedes memory and insists on being felt in advance. I carry it through my days like an illness that sharpens the body, making every ordinary moment feel improperly charged.
I am not troubled by the idea that this may be madness. Madness is loud and impatient and eager to be seen. This is quieter. It knows precisely when to surface and when to retreat and has taught my thoughts to move differently, to circle instead of advance, to linger where they ought to pass on. I find myself resisting conclusions the way one resists sleep when one knows what waits on the other side of it.

I do not imagine you as you are now, but as you have always been to me, which is to say indistinct yet unmistakable, present without form, intimate without permission. I recognize you the way one recognizes a hand placed on the shoulder in darkness, by the immediate and irreversible understanding that it does not belong to a stranger.
At times I feel you too close to my thoughts, as though you were reading along from some other room, correcting nothing, merely observing, allowing me to reveal myself unguarded. This is the most unsettling part: not necessarily that I feel watched, but that I do not feel alone while being so.

If fate exists, it has a cruel sense of timing. If it does not, then this is worse, for it means I have carried you across lives without instruction, without justification, guided only by a fidelity I do not remember choosing. I have been loyal to you in ignorance.

Should we ever meet, I do not expect tenderness. I expect to know immediately whether I am meant to follow you again or finally be released from you.
Until then, I write.
Because some things, if not written down, begin to rot inside the mind.
And I have no intention of letting you decay.

All rights reserved. (B.E.)

02/03/2026

💜

02/03/2026

People are strange.

They’ll erupt over a lukewarm coffee, yet whisper nothing when their life goes cold.

They’ll argue with strangers in traffic, but never confront the fact that they’ve been asleep for a decade.

Minor inconveniences ignite them.

Major betrayals don’t even make them flinch.

They panic over late trains, slow Wi-Fi, and drive-thru errors, but stay calm while their ambition decays and their fire dies.

They’ve mastered urgency for nonsense.

But go numb in the face of wasted years, missed dreams and a life unlived.

You are not built for that fate.

You are not meant to be emotionally fluent in triviality but mute in the language of purpose.

You’re misfiring your energy, bro.

Go channel it into your dying potential.

Before it flatlines.

02/02/2026

How could you not love the way he thinks ? ❤️

Don’t overthink it. All growth feels awkward at first. Keep going.

02/02/2026

Stay strong! 💜

02/02/2026

Who are you today? 😂

02/01/2026

If this life ends without resolution, it will not feel unfinished so much as interrupted, like a chapter folded carefully and placed back on the shelf, waiting for hands that already know how to open it again. And should I meet you once more under a different sky, in a body that does not yet know your name, I am certain I will recognize you by the immediate and inexplicable sense that something long exiled has finally been allowed to return to its rightful place.

All rights reserved.(B.E.)

02/01/2026

Never forget ‼️

02/01/2026

🌌🌔🌠

01/20/2026

01/20/2026

❤️

Good morning!