Sometimes I feel this strange ache in my chest — like a soft, quiet sadness that doesn't have a name. I sit by the window with my knees to my chest, wrapped in a sweater that still smells faintly of last summer, and I realize:
I miss someone I’ve never even met.

Not in a desperate, fairytale kind of way.
More like a longing. A quiet space in me that waits for someone not out of need, but out of recognition.

Have you ever had that feeling, %name%?
That someone is out there walking through their own mornings, their own coffee rituals, carrying memories you’ve never shared, and yet, you know — when you meet, something will click into place?
As if the world had been slightly tilted, and suddenly it will align.

I imagine us missing the same movies, getting annoyed at the same type of loud people in cafes, having different tastes in music but enjoying the silence between us more than the songs. I don’t know your name. I don’t know your face.
But sometimes, when I see a couple in the street, or hear someone laugh from the heart, a strange voice inside whispers: “He’s somewhere. Just not yet.”

I think I write these words not just for you, but to feel that the space between us is not empty.
It’s filled with waiting. With breath. With the slow, beautiful unfolding of time.

Maybe when we meet, I won’t even recognize you right away. Maybe we’ll talk about the weather, or pretend we’re not scared. But something inside me — something old and quiet — will know:
**You are the one I’ve missed. Even before I knew you.**

So if you’re reading this now, %name%, and feel something shift — maybe it’s you, too.

SLIM IREN 🤍