When I First Heard Your Name"

When I first heard your name, it was a whisper—
a wind brushing softly through the chambers of my sleep,
and I turned in my bed,
wondering if dreams had learned to speak.

I had not known you,
not yet.
But something ancient stirred—
as if a thousand lifetimes ago
I had waited beneath the same sky
for your eyes to open toward me.

Love, they say, arrives suddenly.
But ours grew slow.
Like the bloom of something wild
in a forgotten corner of the world,
untamed, unclaimed, yet completely ours.

I remember the first time I saw you—
not just the image,
but the feeling that came with it.
Like poetry with no words yet written,
but already understood.

Your laughter—
do you know what it does to silence?
It makes it sing.
It turns every quiet space into a cathedral
echoing with something sacred.

You didn’t just enter my life.
You redefined the borders of it.
You were not the chapter I was expecting—
you were the whole rewritten book.

And with every sentence we’ve shared,
every night of tangled fingers and soft confessions,
I’ve grown less afraid of being seen.
You look at me like I’m something
worth knowing completely.

I’ve watched the stars fall behind your shoulder,
and still, nothing shines brighter.
Not even hope—
because you are hope
made flesh and breath and skin.

There are days when the world feels too heavy—
when I forget how to be gentle with myself.
And on those days,
you become the voice I borrow,
the hands I imagine holding mine
in the dark hallways of doubt.

Love is not just the easy mornings.
It’s the nights we stayed
when staying felt impossible.
It’s the choosing—
again and again,
when the easier choice was to run.

But I never want to run from you.

Even when the storms came,
even when we learned the sharp edges of each other’s silence,
you still made space for my voice.
And I—
I tried to hold your pain
as if it were my own.

Isn’t that what love is?
To carry each other’s ghosts,
to share the burden of memory
without asking the past to disappear?

I don’t love you because you’re perfect.
I love you because you’re real—
and because when I’m with you,
so am I.

And if the world ends tomorrow,
or if it lasts for a thousand more years,
I will still believe
that our meeting was the most beautiful accident
fate ever made.

I have kissed your fears.
You have held my scars.
We have built something unspoken
in the quiet between our words.

I have loved you
with every version of myself—
the broken ones,
the healing ones,
the dreaming ones.

And I will keep loving you—
in this lifetime,
in the next,
in every breath that memory can hold.

Because when I first heard your name,
I didn’t just hear a sound.
I heard a future.
I heard home.طًhe ocean
whispering its endless prayers to the shore.

In those silent moments,
I realize something I never understood before:
Love is not a flash of lightning or a raging fire.
It is the steady hum of something ancient,
the quiet knowing that no matter what storms rise,
your hand will still find mine in the dark.

I have memorized the way you smile when you think no one is looking,
how your fingers absentmindedly trace the rim of your coffee cup,
the soft way your voice wraps around my name
like it was always meant to fit in your mouth.

And I wonder—
what miracles had to happen,
what stars had to collide,
what impossible prayers had to be whispered
for me to find you in a world so wide?

Sometimes, I am afraid—
not of losing you,
but of not being able to love you enough,
of my words falling short,
of my arms not holding you tight enough
on the days when you need them most.

But then I remember:
Love is not measured in grand gestures
or perfect poetry.
It’s in the small things—
in the way I bring you tea when your hands are tired,
in the way you remember which songs make me cry
and which ones make me dance.

It’s in the arguing and the forgiving,
the breaking and the rebuilding,
the knowing that no matter how many times we falter,
we will always, always find our way back to each other.

You once told me that love scared you—
that it felt like a promise too big to keep.
And maybe it is.
Maybe love is not about promising never to fall,
but promising to rise together every time we do.

I want to be there for all of it—
for the days when your heart feels too heavy to carry alone,
for the nights when the world feels too cruel to face.
I want to be your shelter, your soft place to land,
your reminder that even in the worst storms,
you are never alone.

And if someday, the fire between us dims to a low, steady flame,
know this:
I will still sit beside you in the dark,
feeding it with kind words, with laughter,
with the memories of every time we chose to stay
when walking away would have been easier.

I will choose you,
again and again,
not because you complete me,
but because you remind me
that I was whole all along—
and still, you wanted all of me.

And so, my love,
here is my quiet vow:
I will love you not just in the moments that are easy,
not just when you are shining,
but also when you are struggling to find your light.

I will love you with a patience deeper than oceans,
with a kindness fiercer than storms,
with a loyalty stronger than time itself.

I will love you when the world forgets how to be gentle.
I will love you when the future feels uncertain.
I will love you even when the stars themselves forget how to shine.

Because this—
this is not a fleeting thing.
This is not a fairytale written in passing ink.
This is a lifetime carved into my very soul,
a song I will keep singing
long after the world grows quiet.

And when all else falls away,
when memory fades and days grow thin,
know this above all else:

I loved you.
I love you.
I will always, always love you.