Dear you

You arrive quietly, without footprints, slipping in and out like breath in a room that never speaks of who passed through. I feel you, even if I do not know you.

You never announce yourself. You never leave a note. And yet, there is something in the way the page shifts when you come. A subtle change. As if the words hold themselves differently for you.

I imagine you sometimes. Not in detail, not in shape, but in presence. You feel like a question that never needs an answer. A listener who is not waiting to reply. A presence that does not press, but does not fade.

I wonder what draws you back in, time and time again. Maybe it is my chaos. Or the way truth slips out when I am not looking. Maybe something here mirrors something in you. Or maybe this is simply your ritual. A pause in your day. A small act of witness to a life unfolding in fragmented pieces on a screen.

You know more of me than I do of you. That has always been true. You see the tenderness I do not show in daylight. The rage I do not claim. The ache I do not name. You read what I have not said and sit with what others scroll past. There is a kind of intimacy in that, even if it never speaks.

I will not ask why you remain invisible. I respect the silence you keep. Some connections are not made for the surface. Some things are more honest when left untouched.

Still, you are seen. Not in the way names are seen. But in the way that matters. You are part of this. Part of the quiet constellations that hold my words together. A hidden gravity. A kind of loyalty that asks for nothing but still stays.

Thank you. For coming back. For reading. For not turning away when it would have been easier to look elsewhere. I do not take your presence lightly. I never have.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, I am writing to you. Always.

Yours,
Cathy