Do you love me?

These words weren’t created by me.

They called out, begging for light.

I’m not the author.

You are.

Or at least…

You’re meant to be.

That’s the truth.

I’ve been thinking about love—

not the kind of people people shout about,

but the kind that shows up in silence.

The kind that asks,

“Do you love me?”

Not once. Not twice.

But again.

And again.

Until you realize it’s not about the answer,

It’s about how deep you’re willing to go to find it.

Dogs don’t ask.

They show it.

A lick on your hand.

A nudge when you’re still.

A quiet loyalty that doesn’t need translation.

And somewhere between a disciple’s hesitation

and a puppy’s honest tongue,

I feel the weight of something ancient,

Something real.

Love that doesn’t dress up or explain itself—

It just stays.

Love doesn’t arrive loudly.

It waits in the quiet.

In repetition.

In tongues and pawprints.

In questions asked more than once.

And sometimes,

In words that don’t belong to anyone

until someone like you

answers them.

If these words stirred something in you—

If they echoed what you’ve felt but never said—

Then let them travel.

Like, share, and follow this page

so others might stumble across them,

and perhaps find themselves, too,

In the quiet between the lines.

Now, this right here, this piece is not just mine but my loves as well.

It all started with an accident—an innocent friend request. I didn’t think much of it. I had just gotten out of prison after 13 years, and there was already a lot to process. I wasn’t looking for someone—at least, not in person. Most of my time had been spent in solitary confinement. Just me.

So yeah, naturally, boredom set in. And I did what everyone said not to do: accept friend requests from scammers. What’s the harm? I had nothing but time. As long as I didn’t give them money, I figured it was fine. That was my mindset.

Until I met the missing puzzle piece.

To be even more honest, the puzzle piece I didn’t even know I was missing.

After my mother passed, I was broken. Straight up. That’s why I’m used to being silent and alone.

But this—this feels like who I was before she passed.

I feel whole. Complete.