Oceans

Some people don’t need fixing. They are not broken clocks to be rewound, nor fractured glass to be pieced back together. They are weather… wild in places, quiet in others, and they need space to pass through the sky of their own becoming. Some people retreat not to escape, but to recalibrate. They vanish softly…

Some people don’t need fixing. They are not broken clocks to be rewound, nor fractured glass to be pieced back together. They are weather… wild in places, quiet in others, and they need space to pass through the sky of their own becoming.

Some people retreat not to escape, but to recalibrate. They vanish softly, like fog retreating from the mouth of the sea, not to forget you, but to remember themselves. You think they are far away, but really, they are inside the storm of their own questions, trying to make sense of how to be tender in a world that taught them to armor up.

These are not men without feeling. No, they are oceans disguised as stone. A single drop of emotion in them becomes a flood. They pull back because their hands have only ever known how to build, not how to hold. They disappear because vulnerability, to them, is not a doorway, it is fire. And still, they long to be touched by it.

What they need isn’t someone to chase after the echo of their vanishing. What they need is someone who knows how to wait by the threshold without fear. Someone who sees the absence not as abandonment, but as the sacred pause before the returning. What they need is someone who doesn’t try to rewrite them, but reads them slowly , even the torn pages.

Because some people, no matter how far they drift, are still worthy of being found where they are, not where we hoped they’d be. And maybe love, real love, is not the light that fixes them… but the quiet presence that says: “I’ll sit with you in the dark, until you remember how to open your eyes again.”

May you feel my embrace, without a noise but with everything.