You say it’s easy between us. And it is. Every moment feels natural, every silence feels safe, every glance feels like a conversation we don’t need to translate. There’s no effort, no pretending, no weight in the air we can’t breathe through.

And that’s the part that wrecks me quietly. Because if something this easy can still be this uncertain, what does that say about everything I’ve ever trusted? What does it say about the people I bled for – when they made love feel like survival?

It scares me, the way ease can still ache. The way something so right can exist only in the almost, only in the now. As if love can live in the in-between and still feel real.

I don’t know how to hold something that feels this good without needing to ask where it’s going. I don’t want to ruin it by needing more, but I’m afraid of what happens if I don’t. So I keep it light. I keep it easy. I keep it close.

And maybe you do, too. Maybe that’s why we never say too much, why we leave the hard questions unasked. Because answering them might mean this softness was always temporary.

But I’ll say this much. If this is all we get – this ease, this ache, this beautiful almost – I’ll still remember it as one of the safest things I never had to force.