I've held this quietly for a long time, unsure of when—or if—it should ever be said. Some things don't fade with time; they simply learn how to wait.
But these words have lived inside me for years now—quietly burning, patiently waiting—and I can't carry them alone anymore. So forgive me for being selfish tonight. I need to set them free.
We didn't share a thousand moments. We didn't have entire chapters together. But the few pages we did share—I remember them as if they happened yesterday. The way you looked at me. The sound of your laugh, caught off guard. Small, ordinary moments that somehow branded themselves into my memory and refused to fade. Most people forget the little things. I never could. Not with you.
You turned brief encounters into constellations I've been tracing ever since.
A song drifts through my headphones and I wonder if it would make you smile. I see something beautiful, or strange, or funny—and still, after all this time, I find myself wishing I could share it with you. You've lived in the background of my thoughts like a melody I never learned the words to, but always recognized.
Steve Rogers waited an entire lifetime for the right dance. I understand that now. Not because I've been waiting for you to return to my life—but because some people leave a mark so deep that time doesn't soften it. It only teaches you how rare it was. You are that kind of rare, Briana. The kind that makes a man question every almost and what if he's ever known.
Before I say anything more, there's something I need to place where it belongs—between the words, not around them:
I knew you not by borrowed time,
Nor by the promises we never made,
But by the way your presence stayed with me,
Long after moments learned my name,
When all that passed refused to fade.
I carried you until silence
Began to feel untrue,
Until saying nothing asked more of me
Than telling this to you.
If feelings are beyond hands held tight,
Beyond the courage to be seen,
Then mine were written quietly
In the spaces held between—
The unsaid words,
Where silence learned to speak.
Tony Stark once said, "Part of the journey is the end." But I think part of the journey is also the confession—the moment you stop pretending the ache isn't there. These feelings have been my quiet constant for years, growing roots in places I never gave them permission to grow.
I want to be clear about something important. I'm not expecting anything from you—no reply, no explanation, no reassurance. This letter isn't a question, and it doesn't require an answer. Please don't feel any responsibility to carry this with you or to respond in any way.
I only wanted you to know that you mattered to me, and that you still do, in a quiet and respectful way. That knowledge is enough for me. What you do with it—if anything at all—is entirely up to you.
Writing this isn't about changing the present. It's about finally being honest with the past, and letting it rest where it belongs.
Thank you for the moments we shared, however small they may have seemed at the time. They stayed with me longer than you'll ever know, and that alone was worth telling you.