Even If They Never Do

I found you today,

tucked into the corner of my chest,

knees drawn up,

palms pressed against the fragile skin

where your heartbeats live.

You were so quiet,

I almost missed you.

You asked me if we’re still strong.

I could feel the weight of that word

in your mouth —

the way it has always meant

hiding.

Swallowing your voice whole.

Smiling through the ache.

I wanted to lie,

to say yes —

but you deserve better than that.

We are still here, little one,

but not because we hid.

We are here because we learned

that strength is not in the silence.

It’s in the staying —

staying with the ache,

staying with the truth,

staying with ourselves

when no one else does.

You were so good at disappearing —

slipping behind silence,

folding yourself into shapes

that made you easier to hold.

You thought being small

would make you safer.

You thought quietness

was the price of love.

I’m sorry no one told you

that you never had to earn your place.

That your voice belongs,

even when it trembles.

That your sadness belongs,

even when it’s inconvenient.

That your wanting belongs,

even when it’s more than they know how to hold.

I’m sorry no one held your hand

the first time your heart broke

and said,

"Even this—even this ache—belongs here."

If no one has ever said this,

let me:

You were never too much.

Not then.

Not now.

Not ever.

Your softness was never the problem.

Your tenderness was never a crime.

If anything,

they were the brightest things about you.

The parts that made you —

you.

You don’t have to be strong for me.

You don’t have to hold it all together.

I will not turn away

if you fall apart.

I will not leave

because you feel too deeply.

You are loved, little one —

not for your endurance,

but for your existence.

Not for the ways you bend,

but for the way you bloom

when you are free.

Come sit with me.

There is nothing left to protect.

There is no version of you

I will ever refuse to hold.

Even the angry you.

Even the grieving you.

Even the you that still longs for them.

And about them —

the ones you’ve loved

who could not love you back the way you needed —

we need to talk about them too.

You were never wrong for wanting

to be held fully,

to be chosen loudly,

to be understood without translation.

You were never greedy

for wanting to be known —

not just as someone strong,

but as someone soft,

and tender,

and worthy.

Some people will only ever know

how to love in fragments —

not because you are too much,

but because they were never taught

how to hold something whole.

That is not your fault.

And it’s not always theirs either.

It’s just the quiet ache

of being someone who wants to be fully known

in a world that fears seeing too much.

You are allowed to mourn them, little one.

The ones who couldn’t stay.

The ones who couldn’t hold you whole.

The ones who never meant to hurt you,

but did.

You are allowed to grieve

the love you didn’t receive —

the love you tried so hard to earn.

And you are allowed to walk away

from anyone who cannot hold you

without asking you to disappear.

Even if they never learn your language,

I will.

Even if they never hold you whole,

I will.

I always will.