Almost

I haven’t met him, and still my eyes ache like they’re remembering something they haven’t touched.

I move through rooms with a quiet pressure in my chest, as if I’m carrying a question that refuses to be asked.

I don’t search. I wait in that particular way that hurts— the way you stand very still so nothing misses you.

Somewhere, a man I don’t know will look up and feel the wrongness of calm, a pull he can’t place, a want without permission.

His eyes will stay a moment too long, as if leaving costs something. And I will feel it—not relief, not recognition— just the sharp, sweet knowledge that yearning has found a place to rest, even if only for the length of a look.