If you're reading this, it means I didn't tell you the truth in time.
I wanted to.
God, I tried.
But then you smiled. And the silence between us started to feel sacred—like if I broke it, I'd lose you before I ever really had you.
You asked me once why I looked at you like I was memorizing you.
It's because I was.
I never planned to fall for anyone. Love felt like a luxury I couldn't afford, a language I didn't speak. I built walls instead—companies, towers, empires made of steel and silence.
Then you walked in like a storm pretending to be sunlight.
And I… I forgot how to be alone.
You made time slow down.
You made thirty days feel like forever.
And I let you believe we had more.
More time. More chances. More truth.
But I lied.
I told myself I was protecting you.
Now I realize I was protecting myself from the one thing I couldn't control—loving you enough to lose you.
So if you're holding this, and I'm not beside you—
Know this: I didn't die alone.
I died loving you.
—D.