If destiny needs a name, let it be his.

I beg the Universe—
quietly, on nights it pretends not to hear me.
I look at you and swallow the words,
I will wait.
No matter how long.
No matter how foolish it makes me look
, standing still while the world moves on.

I would hold your hand when the seas grow violent,
when hope slips through your fingers
and you forget how to breathe.
I would teach you how to live again—
not because you don’t know how,
but because I only ever wanted
to do life with you.

I would advise you, if you asked,
on how to soften the sharp edges of your days.
I would be the solace you kept searching for
in places that were never kind to you.

I say all of this, don’t I?
I say I am ready.
I say I have love—
more than I know what to do with.
I say I love you.

And you never say it back.
Not once.
Not when it mattered.

So here we are, losing—
not loudly, not dramatically—
but quietly, the way people do
when one heart is open
and the other is locked from the inside.

You weren’t willing to receive
the love I held out to you,
even when it came without conditions.

Who knew love could suffocate instead of save?
Did you know?
Is that why you stood in the doorway,
telling me you loved me—
your body already halfway gone,
your words never intending to stay?

And yet, even after all of this,
I bow my head to the Universe,
stubborn in my faith, reckless in my hope.

I ask it to rewrite the prophecy,
to be merciful where you were not,
and to still—somehow—
name my destiny after you.