To the One Who Stole My Quiet:

I may never get the courage to hand you this letter, and maybe that’s how it's meant to be. Some things aren’t written to be delivered; they’re written to be released.

There was a time I didn’t know your name, yet your presence still shifted something in me. Like sunlight through a curtain, you warmed places I didn’t know were cold.

You never asked me to become anything; you just made me want to grow —Not because I had to impress you, but because I saw in you a mirror of what I could become if I lived with purpose, with faith, with grace.

Your care came in quiet moments, a soft check-in, a gentle gesture, a kind glance, each one making noise in a soul that had grown too used to silence.

Maybe it was never meant to be more than a moment. But if that’s the case, then I want you to know this: You were a moment that mattered. A quiet page in my story that turned everything. Not with grand declarations, but with the strength of consistency, and the elegance of goodness.

I won’t lie to you. There are days I ache to tell you everything, about my wins, my wounds, my ridiculous jokes and broken dreams. I wonder if you'd laugh, if you'd care, if you'd see me beneath the tiredness and trying.

But I’ve learned that love isn’t always about being chosen. Sometimes it’s about honouring what someone awakened in you, even if they walk away without ever knowing.

So, thank you. For what you gave, for what you never knew you gave, and for the person I’m still becoming because, once upon a time, you believed in me—or at least, you looked at me like I mattered. I carry that look in my soul. It reminds me to keep going. With quiet love,

Me.

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