I cherish what happens in silence. When you walk barefoot across the warm floor to the kitchen and pour yourself a cup of coffee. When you sit by the window with a book and rain outside. When your dog puts its head on your lap and you stroke it and think, “This is it. Happiness. Small, quiet.” I have my quirks — I can get lost in a museum in front of a single painting for half an hour. I write notes in the margins of books. I cook dinner as if I were expecting a king. And sometimes I can laugh until I cry at a silly joke. All of this is me. A woman who knows how to be gentle but strong. One who can support. And one who can quietly lie down next to you, silently, and just be there — without needing words.
I'm not afraid of loneliness. But I get tired of it. Sometimes I want so much to share — not even something special, just... to share. To tell you how my day went. To ask how you are. To hide my fingers in your palm when it's cold. To create a cozy atmosphere, cook soup, and argue about movies. Yes, I dream — perhaps naively — of a home that is warm not from the radiators, but from the looks in each other's eyes. From closeness. From love that breathes quietly nearby. What do you dream about when you go to sleep? Is there a desire that you keep to yourself, never telling anyone?