🕯 The Woman Who Wrote in the Absence of Touch 📜

There once was a woman whose ways were carved from older times —
not by the years she lived in,
but by the soul she carried.

She lived in a world of instant everything:
calls, texts, videos that made it possible to see someone blink across oceans.
But her love, the one who stirred the deepest rivers of her being,
lived far beyond the reach of her trembling fingertips.

And so she couldn’t bear it.

The idea of hearing his voice — his breath — without being able to fall into his arms
was more than agony.
It was a form of death,
a cruel tease of presence without the weight of touch.

So, she did what only those born from soulache understand.
She wrote.

Not just letters.
Epics.
Ink-soaked confessions that took her days, sometimes weeks,
to gather the courage, clarity, and pain to birth onto the page.

Each word was a thread from her heart to his.
Each paragraph, a window into the holy temple she’d built from his memory.

She scented the pages with her favorite tea leaves.
She cried between sentences,
laughing once in a while,
not because she found it funny,
but because the depth of love sometimes spills out as laughter when it’s too big to hold.

She chose paper over pixels
because her pain had texture —
and only something tangible could carry it honestly.

To her, sending a letter was not slow…
it was sacred.
A love that needed space,
and time,
to breathe.

She feared hearing his voice through a wire —
because she knew the ache of not being able to crawl through it.

And when he received her letters,
he felt it.
Not just her love —
but her restraint.
Her honoring of distance,
because for her, distance was not absence.

It was a waiting womb.
A place where longing made love real.
Where patience was an altar,
and every letter a candle lit in prayer.

He wrote back, of course.
But never called.
Not once.

He honored her way,
the same way she honored the ache.

They met again years later,
older, slower, wiser.

And when he finally held her in his arms,
she whispered with tears and a smile,
“I didn’t want to hear your voice… because I would’ve shattered without your body to hold it in.”

And he, heart breaking and blooming all at once,
replied:
“You held me the whole time, with every word you chose not to say aloud.”

This is the relationship that goes behind the veil, between the said and unsaid. We do it with our parents, our siblings, our friend, colleagues and more, and some times we just have to remind ourselves it’s also life, enjoy what you have pal and be consistent with what you care about.