I once wrote a letter with "I dreamed of you" instead of "Hello", but I didn't send it.

I squeezed it in my right palm and let it tremble in my veins. I also put the picture when we were two innocent children with thoughts of freedom. That's how we were dressed, we were new students, the fruit of decency. I was the little girl in the fourth bench by the window, I would have liked to sit at the map, to memorize geographical places, but then I can't concentrate on lessons, said my comrade teacher.

Maybe one day you will read it, not on paper, but in the way I stop a step back when I see you, or in the silence with which I don't say anything to you when you need to hear everything.

What a gift is your soul when it chooses To run not to the road, but next to me, To hold my heart when it fades And my step breaks from the ruins.

When I get tired and the shadow surrounds me, You return — not for the road, but for a purpose. Even heroes tremble in empty Silences, and support is the humblest.

If you tell me I am mute, do not ask me to answer, But be silent with me. My struggle is great. Smile at me, even when my sky is bottomless And I no longer believe in any relief.

And if I tell you that I want you... then stay. It may be a cry, do not let it rise in the valleys.

I have hidden confessions
??

on the edge of my thought

I don't know if it's still me or an echo that I forgot openly, somewhere between a missed hug and an unspoken "I forgive you". Who left me like this, with my voice in my hands and my steps bent in anticipation?

I'm afraid only silence heard me—and she, without wanting to, understood me best.