The Center of My World

 

My favorite Franz Kafka once wrote to Milena,

“Somehow, I can’t write about anything but what concerns us and us alone, in the middle of the crowded world. Everything else is foreign to me.”

And just like him, I feel this world makes sense to me only through you. Everything else feels like distant noise. My heart returns only to one center, again and again. Us.

I received your letter when I had just sat down after the day had passed. The world had gone a little quieter. I was finally alone with myself. And then, there it was. Your words waiting for me, like a soft breath I didn’t know I needed.

I didn’t just read it once.
I read it thrice.
The first time to feel your words.
The second to feel your silences between them.
The third time to feel you alone.

There’s something in the way you write that touches me. It feels gentle, like something half-whispered and half-held. It doesn’t shout for attention, it simply arrives and settles into my chest like quiet peace. Like birdsong somewhere far away. Or rain falling slowly on dry earth.

You said your handwriting is not that good. But to me, it felt like looking at something alive. Every curve, every stroke, it all belonged to you. It was more beautiful than anything perfect. Because it was honest. And it was yours. I don’t need neatness. I need truth. And that’s what your writing carries.

While reading it, I could hear your voice. Not loud. Not playful. But soft. A little unsure. A little shy. Like you were speaking only to me. As if the rest of the world didn’t exist while you wrote it. And when I read it, the rest of the world disappeared for me too.

Thank you for writing.
But more than that, thank you for believing.

Thank you for holding on. For not giving up. For keeping faith in something so fragile, so unspoken, and yet so deeply felt. You didn’t just write to me. You reminded me that I matter to someone. That this bond means something. That we’re not just a passing story in each other’s lives. That we’re real.

You are not a small part of my life.
You are the center of it.

My thoughts keep returning to you, again and again, even when I’m busy, even when I pretend not to care, even when I try to be logical. The truth is, I don’t want to be anywhere you are not. Even your absence feels heavier than anyone’s presence.

You’ve become my quiet habit.
A prayer I don’t say out loud.
A presence I look for even in silence.

Some days I think about all that we’ve shared. Not the details, but the feelings. The way you said you would love me without conditions. The way you stood by me, not with loud promises but with gentle consistency. You never needed to say a lot. You just needed to stay. And you did.

That means everything.

Sometimes I imagine you reading this, maybe at night. Maybe sitting quietly, or lying down, or watching the sky. And I hope you feel what I feel. That this is something more than just words. That this is a connection which may not follow rules, but still carries warmth. Still carries truth.

We don’t know what the future will give or take.
But we have this now.

We have these moments. These quiet conversations. These letters. These gentle reminders that even in this noisy world, someone is thinking of someone. Truly. Deeply.

And maybe that is love.

I am here.
I am yours.
And I love you.

Not because everything is perfect, but because even in uncertainty, you are the one I choose.

Again and again.