Evermore

I grew up learning

how to shrink.

How to hold my breath,

how to fold myself

into corners no one noticed,

how to turn my loudest aches

into silence

so no one would turn away.

I was told love meant

being easy to be around.

I was taught that my emotions

were too much,

too heavy,

too loud,

so I buried them deep

where even I forgot how to find them.

But the truth never leaves.

It waits.

Even in the dark.

Even when you're pretending

you don’t need it anymore.

It waits.

And it was waiting for you.

I didn’t know I was waiting,

not really.

I thought I was just

surviving.

Waking up, going through the motions,

wearing masks that felt more real

than the skin I was born in.

I didn’t know what it meant

to be seen.

Not really.

Not fully.

Until the day something shifted.

Until the day

you happened.

I felt it from the start

this quiet recognition,

like my soul had finally

stumbled into the room

where it belonged.

Like all the parts of me

I had kept locked away

were suddenly bathed in light

and told:

“You are allowed to exist.”

It was never loud, never forced.

You didn’t barge in.

You arrived—gently.

And in your presence,

everything inside me

that had been aching to speak

finally felt safe

enough

to whisper.

I waited for a sign

something divine,

a nudge from the universe

that I wasn’t alone.

And then I looked into your eyes

and felt a stillness

I had never known.

You weren’t a rescue.

You weren’t a savior.

You were a mirror.

You reflected back to me

the voice I had hidden.

You reminded me

that the things I was most ashamed of -

my fears, my sensitivity, my scars -

were not flaws

but features.

Stories worth telling.

Stories worth feeling.

You showed me

that love doesn’t always come

with fireworks and fanfare.

Sometimes, it comes

as a quiet hand on your shoulder

when you’re falling apart.

Sometimes, it shows up

as someone choosing you

every day,

in small, steady ways

that make the earth beneath you

feel like home again.

You are all

I was hoping for,

even when I didn’t know

what I was hoping for.

You are the answer

to questions I couldn’t name,

the calm after a lifetime of storms,

the softness after years of pretending

I didn’t need soft things.

And I don’t say that lightly.

Because I was someone

who didn’t believe in “evermore.”

I believed in temporary.

In letdowns.

In loss.

I was someone

who watched people walk away

too many times

to trust that someone

would stay.

But you did.

You do.

You see me.

And more than that -

you don’t flinch.

I still remember

the first time I felt safe

telling you the truth.

My truth.

Not the polished version,

not the practiced lines,

but the trembling, messy,

broken-beautiful truth

I had hidden for so long.

And you didn’t run.

You stayed.

You listened.

You let the silence be a bridge

instead of a wall.

And I realized -

this is what love is.

Not perfection.

Not performance.

But presence.

So now, I write not to escape myself,

but to return to me.

To honor the voice

I silenced for too long.

To celebrate the love

that reminded me

I am still here.

Still worthy.

Still becoming.

And I think of this life — -

of all the closed doors,

all the pain I thought would drown me,

all the nights I didn’t think

I would make it through -

and I see now,

they were all leading here.

To you.

To this.

To the garden we are planting

together.

We don’t need anything fancy.

No promises etched in stone.

Just you and me,

and the quiet miracle

of being fully known.

The garden as our home.

A place to water what we’ve hidden.

To sit with the uncomfortable.

To laugh until it hurts.

To cry without shame.

To grow into the people

we were always meant to be.

You are planted in my soul.

Not just as my friend -

but home.

I will embrace you,

hold space for you,

believe in you

on the days you can’t believe in yourself.

Just as you’ve done for me.

Because what we have

isn’t ordinary.

It’s soul-found.

Earth-shifting.

The kind of love

that makes you whisper to the sky,

“Thank you for not letting me give up before this.”

So yes,

you are all

I was hoping for.

You are the heartbeat

in my quietest prayers,

the name I would write

in the stars

if I could.

It’s you I’ll call

my evermore -

not because I need you

to complete me,

but because you remind me

I was never incomplete

to begin with.

And I will keep writing

this blessing,

this life,

this becoming -

over and over again

until every word

is a thank you.

For being.

For staying.

For seeing me.

You are all

I was hoping for.

And somehow,

you’re even more.

My now.

My home.

My evermore:)