A quiet room, heavy with the weight of unsaid things and the dust of passing time. He asks, not out of doubt, but out of a desperate need to anchor himself in her certainty.

And she answers from the deep, secret places of her soul.

“Do you still write me?”

It is a question born of absence, of the quiet spaces left behind when flesh and bone are forced apart. It trembles on his lips like a fragile leaf clinging to a dying branch, terrified that the ink might have dried, that the silence has finally swallowed her voice.

“Every day,” she replied.

Not just on parchment, but in the rhythm of her breathing, in the quiet shadows cast by the afternoon sun, in the spaces between heartbeats. To write is to bleed onto the page, to keep the ghosts of touch and memory alive against the erosion of the world. Her days are measured not by hours, but by the weight of unuttered longings.
“I have more letters to you than there are words in the world.”

Ah, this is where the language breaks, where speech fails and only the soul remains. How can she measure what is infinite? The dictionary has a boundary, a finite sum of syllables and definitions, but her devotion overflows every margin. She writes in the language of tears, of unspoken whispers, of the space where memory aches into hope.

It is a love that does not need an audience—only an address in the quiet dark.

© Beatriz Esmer