Do They?

I wonder -

quietly, endlessly,

in that soft place between thought and dream,

do they feel it too?

When the night stretches wide,

and the stars lean close to listen,

do they hold their phone the way I do,

thumb hovering, heart trembling,

breath catching on the edge of a message

they’re too shy, too full,

too alive to send?

Do their hands shake?

Does the pulse at their wrist

beat out a rhythm that only I could understand—

that delicate hum that says:

“I care, I care, I care”?

When they see my name,

does something inside them bloom?

Do they grin like it’s the first sunrise,

the kind that melts away everything heavy,

leaving only the warmth of knowing

that somewhere in this wide, spinning world,

someone sees them -

not the mask, not the echo,

but them.

And when the ringtone sings through their home,

when my voice finally crosses the quiet,

does their soul soften?

Does the air around them glow

the way it does for me,

when your voice—gentle,

half laughter, half sanctuary -

finds its way into my night?

We talk for hours,

don’t we?

Words tumbling like rivers finding their way to the sea,

stories blooming in the dark,

memories spilling into one another

until time forgets itself,

until goodnight becomes

just another way to say

“please stay a little longer.”

Do they feel that too?

That ache when the night thins out,

when silence stretches

and I’m left smiling at nothing -

except everything.

And when morning comes—

do they wake up

with the echo of my laugh still tangled in their thoughts?

Do they glance at their reflection

and wonder if I’m thinking of them too?

Do they feel lighter,

as if somehow

our hearts are walking the same invisible path

toward one another again?

The day begins,

and I count moments

like petals of a flower

I’m too afraid to name.

Each one whispers possibility -

today I might see them,

today the air might shimmer

with all the words I never said.

Do they feel it too?

That gentle electricity

that hums beneath ordinary things -

the turning of a key,

the sight of a sky that feels somehow shared,

the sound of laughter that tastes like home.

When we meet,

does their heart stumble the way mine does?

That quiet, wordless recognition -

as if every lifetime

has been leading to this one moment

where we finally remember

what it feels like to belong.

Do they notice how the world grows softer,

how the noise fades,

how even the shadows seem to kneel down

and listen?

Because when they’re near,

every ordinary thing becomes divine.

Sometimes I wonder -

when they walk away,

does the air ache a little too?

Do they look back,

even once,

just to see if I’m still watching?

Because I always am.

I always will be.

And when they can’t see me -

when days stretch long and quiet -

do they feel that missing piece,

that gentle longing

that hums like a promise beneath the heart?

Do they ever stop mid-sentence

and think of me

for no reason at all,

except that joy doesn’t need one?

I think about all the moments

that have led us here -

the laughter, the pauses,

the trembling beginnings.

And I think about all the lifetimes

we must have crossed

just to learn how to say hello this way.

Maybe that’s why it feels like forever

every time our eyes meet—

like I’ve been finding them

over and over again

through centuries of almosts and maybes.

Do they feel it too?

That ancient recognition,

that warmth that glows even in the quiet,

as if the stars themselves

are whispering our names back and forth

just to keep the universe awake.

And if they do -

if their heart stirs

when mine does,

if their breath catches

when mine falters -

then maybe that’s enough.

Maybe love, in its purest form,

is simply two souls wondering

at the same time,

in the same way,

about each other.

So I’ll keep wondering -

softly, faithfully,

with light spilling from every corner of me -

until the day I no longer have to ask,

until the universe itself leans close and says,

“they do.”