MY FOREVER

You Taught Me a Secret Language I Can’t Speak With Someone Else

You taught me a secret language, one I can’t speak with anyone else. It wasn’t just words—it was the way you’d look at me from across the room, the way your voice softened when you said my name, the way our silences were never empty. It felt like magic. Our own little universe, tucked away from everyone else. And for a while, it was everything.

But, like all languages, it wasn’t meant to stay the same. You taught me that love has many translations, that there are a million ways to say “I love you.” And as much as I wanted our language to last forever, I now realize maybe it was always meant to evolve. Perhaps it was meant to teach me that love is vast, more than just one form or one person.

Yet, here’s the thing—I can still speak it. I can still feel every word, every phrase. I can hear it echo in my mind when I close my eyes at night. But when I try to write it down, the pen slips, the ink runs dry. Just like us. Our pens, once full of potential and stories yet to be told, now sit unused, their purpose lost. We were once fluent, but now? It’s as if our hands forgot how to write the words our hearts once knew.

I crave something new. I want to feel love like learning a new language, like picking up a book on a shelf and getting lost in its pages. But this time, I want the book to last. I want the story to continue beyond the last chapter, where the ink never fades, where I don’t have to close the cover and walk away. I want love to be a language I speak fluently and forever.

I remember asking God if I could love him—if it was okay to love someone so fiercely, so recklessly. And He told me no. He told me that this love would destroy me, that I wasn’t built for this kind of fall. But the little girl in me wasn’t afraid of falling. She wanted to see what it felt like to be consumed by something so powerful, even if it hurt. So, I didn’t listen. I let myself fall, hard and fast, without thinking of the bruises I’d collect along the way.

He became my muse, the obsession that filled my thoughts. He carved his way into my soul, becoming a part of me that I couldn’t quite shake off. He was in every line I wrote, every poem, every sigh. Every chapter of my life felt like it was co-written by him, with his fingerprints smeared on the edges of the pages.

But here’s the heartbreaking part: I look at the words now, the ones we wrote together, and they no longer flow. What was once effortless now feels awkward, clumsy. It’s as if I’m translating a language I’ve forgotten how to speak. I look at him, and the words that once danced off my tongue now trip and falter. I’m stuck between understanding and confusion, between knowing the meaning and struggling to find the right words.

I used to write love effortlessly, without hesitation. Now, every word feels foreign, like I’m reading someone else’s story, not my own. The spark, the fire, the passion we once had? It’s been quenched, leaving only faint embers of what once was. I can still see the glow, but it’s dim, flickering, barely alive.

I want to love again. I want to dive into a new story, one where the words don’t fail me. I want a love where I don’t have to pause and search for the right phrases, where the language is natural, flowing, and forever. I want a connection that doesn’t require translation, where every look, every touch, every word feels like home. I want a love that doesn’t fade when the ink runs out.

The little girl in me still believes in fairy tales. She still believes in the idea of forever love, the kind that doesn’t burn out, that doesn’t leave you with nothing but half-finished stories and unanswered questions. I want to give her that. I want to pick up a new book and not be afraid of the ending. I want to read and write and love in a language that feels like it’s mine for keeps.

And here’s the thing about love—it doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be without its challenges or struggles. But I want a love that, even when things get hard, we can still find our way back to each other. A love where we don’t stop writing even when the pens run dry.

To the lost souls out there, those who’ve felt like they’ve forgotten how to speak the language of love—know this: it’s okay. It’s okay to feel like you’ve lost your way, like the words don’t come as easily as they once did. It’s okay to stumble through the translations and to not always get it right. Love isn’t about perfection; it’s about connection. And even when you feel like you’ve lost the language, there’s always a new one to learn. There’s always a new story waiting for you to pick it up, to fall in love all over again.

So, here’s to the new language. Here’s to falling, to trying again, to risking everything for the chance to love and be loved. And this time? This time, let’s make it last.