I can’t sleep

I can’t sleep.

And it’s not just tonight.

It’s been many, many nights now — lying awake, my body still but my heart in motion, pulled toward a man who isn’t here.

He’s not sleeping beside me.

And that’s why I can’t rest.

Because I miss him.

With a longing that settles in my bones and won’t let me breathe easily.

He’s the first thought of my day.

And the last one before sleep tries to find me.

Even in dreams, he’s there.

He never really leaves me.

We’ve said I love you to each other.

Many times.

In soft voices. In quiet moments. In spaces between everything else.

We meant it every time.

I still do.

But we can’t always be together.

Not as much as we want.

Not because we don’t love each other — but because the world isn’t simple.

There are responsibilities.

People who need us.

Lives we lived before we found each other.

And yet, the love is true.

Real.

Full.

Sometimes too full.

I wonder what he’s doing right now.

If he’s lying awake too.

Or already asleep in a room that doesn’t smell like me.

If he’s thinking of me.

If he misses me the way I miss him.

I hope he’s resting well.

But God, I miss him.

I miss his passionate kiss — the kind that steals the air from my lungs.

His gentle touch, the way he brushes my cheek or runs his fingers across my back like I’m something precious.

I miss his smile — especially when it sneaks up on him and softens everything about him.

And his teeth — slightly crooked, perfectly his — the kind of detail that makes me fall in love all over again.

I miss his big hand holding mine — warm, steady, grounding.

I miss the strength of his body when we hug, how safe and whole I feel when I’m wrapped in him.

I miss his voice when he says my name.

The way he listens — really listens — when I speak.

I miss the fire in his eyes when we’re alone, the way his presence fills a room, the way his energy wraps around me like gravity.

I miss his passion.

I miss the way he sees me.

I miss everything about him.

We managed a short weekend away — just the two of us in the city.

Nothing grand.

Just coffee and donuts.

That’s all we needed.

Cafés on quiet corners.

Laughter between sips.

Fingers brushing beneath the table.

It felt like a little life of its own, tucked away from everything else.

We avoided the sun, as always — both of us happiest in the shade, in soft light, in places where things feel gentle and private.

And all the time we’ve shared — every hour, every word, every touch —

I can’t forget any of it.

I hold on to it like breath.

Like warmth in winter.

Like a story I never want to stop reading.

I read the sweet messages he sent me over and over again whenever I have time.

Just seeing his words…

they make me feel closer to him.

They remind me I’m loved.

That this is real.

That even when he’s far, we’re still connected.

Sometimes I wish we had met earlier.

In our twenties.

When the world felt lighter.

Before the weight of responsibility and the reality of distance.

We talk about it sometimes, in half-jokes that aren’t really jokes at all.

Because we know this came late.

And we ache for the time we didn’t have.

But I think — I know — we’re both willing to give up everything for this love.

Even if we’ve never said it.

Even if we’re both scared to speak that truth aloud.

I know I’m willing.

If he turned to me and said, “Let’s go,”

I would.

But we don’t say it.

Not yet.

And maybe never.

And I know there’s an end to this.

I hate admitting that.

But deep down, I feel it.

The ticking of time.

The fear that love like this doesn’t always get to stay.

And every time I think about the end,

tears roll down my face.

My heart aches with a quiet desperation I can’t shake.

Because I want more.

More mornings.

More days.

More chances to choose each other without hesitation.

But for now, we carry this love between us.

In messages.

In memory.

In moments we steal from the world.

I don’t know what he’s doing at this moment,

but I hope he feels me.

I hope his heart still hears mine.

Because even now, alone in the dark,

I love him.

So much it almost hurts.

And I don’t care if it’s messy.

Or complicated.

Or unfair.

I just love him.

And if this love keeps me from sleep —

if it fills every corner of my mind, every breath, every quiet hour —

so be it.

He’s worth every sleepless night.

We’re the same, he and I.

That’s the part I’ve never really said — not the way I want to.

Because it’s not just love.

It’s not just desire.

It’s recognition.

We are so similar in so many ways, it sometimes scares me.

Like looking into a mirror and seeing someone who understands you without needing an explanation.

Someone who doesn’t need to be told who you are — they already know.

We like the same things — the same quiet joys, the same slow afternoons, the same flavors, the same music that lives beneath the surface of the world.

We love the night more than the day.

We crave peace, not chaos.

We find safety in silence.

We speak in soft tones, and still hear each other clearly.

Our thoughts often move in tandem.

We finish each other’s ideas.

We notice the same small things.

We don’t have to speak much to feel close — just being in the same space feels enough.

We both believe in love — the kind that’s rare and deep and anchored in truth.

We both believe in staying soft in a hard world.

We carry the same longing, the same need to belong, the same quiet sadness from the past.

And when I look at him…

I feel known.

Not just loved, but understood.

People say "soulmate" like it’s some unreachable thing.

But what else could this be?

We’re not perfect, but we are right.

Like a match made in heaven — one that finally found its way here, even if a little too late.

And even if time runs out…

even if we never get to live the life we dreamed —

I will always be grateful for this love.

Because I got to feel it.

I got to know him.

And I got to be known.

And that, in this quiet, sleepless world,

is everything.