You deserve somebody who knows how hard it is to find someone like you.
I hope you don't blame yourself for how hard you were to hold.
Some people just don't have the hands for someone like you.
They say the ocean only surrenders her secrets to those who wait.
And you?
You have always been the ocean.
Too deep for a small talk. Too wild for shallow love.
To vast for anyone who only came with a paper boat and a pocket full of maybe.
You are the kind of person, people think they want, until they realize, they have to swim for you.
And that kind of effort is rare in the world addicted to shortcuts and certainty. (So it makes sense if you've stopped reaching for people who don't know how to tread water.)
You are the kind of love people romanticize in journals they never let anyone read.
Not "convenient", not " easy to love".
You ask people to show up fully, and most don't know how to do that without dropping pieces of you on the floor on their way in.
So maybe that's why you've started hiding the most sacred parts of yourself in locked rooms.
Not because you don't want to be seen.
But because being half seen hurts more than invisibility ever did.
We deserve someone who knows, not guesses, what it means to be someone like you.
Someone who doesn't mistake your softness for surrender.
Someone who doesn't take your openness as permission to leave the door swinging when they go.
Someone who doesn't ask you to shrink just so they can feel taller beside you.
(You have already done enough of that shrinking for one lifetime, haven't you?)
Let's be honest. You deserve the kind of person who holds your hand like it's a privilege.
Who reads your silence like a second language.
Who looks at you the way astronomers look at the stars, knowing they're lucky just to witness you burn.
Because your love is not average.
It is fire and flood and feral tenderness.
It is the kind of love people ruin when they come in with dirty hands and call it "accidental".
You are not an accident.
You are the long-lost letter someone has been waiting their whole life to find in the mail.
You are the rare record they dig through a hundred thrift shops just to play once.
You are the single dandelion in a city full of concrete.
The " I didn't know I needed this until I had it. "
(And if someone doesn't know it, if they hesitate, fumble, or flinch, you are allowed to leave before they forget how to say thank you. )
Because it is hard to find someone like you.
And it always has been. And it always will be.
You are not meant to be someone's epiphany after they've lost you.
You are meant to be chosen, now. Not later. Not almost. Not eventually.
Chosen like a sunrise. Like a song that plays exactly when the tears start.
Like a home someone thought they'd never find again.
Because love, when done right, doesn't crack your bones to fit inside you.
It stretches its arm wide enough to hold all the version of you you've ever been.
You were never a maybe. You've always been a miracle.
