Sometimes I catch myself thinking that I feel too much.
Not just a little—but to the point of trembling. To the point of goosebumps. To the point of an internal storm. And it seems to me that in this world, where everyone is rushing to be “correct,” feeling has become almost shameful.

But I feel.
I can remain silent, but inside a storm is raging.
I can smile, but my heart is broken.
Or vice versa: to be calm on the outside, but inside — a tenderness that is difficult to explain in words.

My feelings are not a weakness. They are a strength.
The strength to see deeper. To hear between the lines.
The strength to notice when he looks a little longer than necessary.
The strength to understand when “everything is fine” hides fatigue, or pain, or longing.

I feel when I love.
It's not just “falling in love.” It's dissolving. It's when you look at him and silently say, “stay.”
When you want to be weak, but only with him.
When you're not afraid to open up — and it's not scary, it's liberating.

But I also feel when it hurts.
When he ignores me. When he's cold. When he's silent.
When my heart is being torn out without anesthesia, and you still say, “It was real with you. Thank you.”

Feelings are not weakness.
They are what make me alive. Real.
And if I feel, it means I breathe.
It means I love. It means I exist.