You finished a chapter that barely even started. Left the pages unwritten but still reaching out. Now that book sits on my shelf, waiting to be picked up again. Collecting dust, but not forgotten. But it will not write itself.

When we met for the first time my heart skipped a beat. Not knowing what to expect but still diving in deep. Talking for hours, walking between the trees. We kept taking the same trails that no one could see. But the day still too short for what was unfolding. A story had started to write itself unknowing.

Minutes turned into hours. Hours into days. Days into weeks. It felt so right. Exciting and calm. Hours spend together felt like a hug so warm. You touched my heart without even trying. And I fell for you without realising. A story blossoming and filling the pages.

I fell for your laugh, your soft eyes, the way you held me so perfectly in your arms. The sound of your voice, your heart of gold, the way you stood a little bit taller when I entered the room. Your quirky smile that lit up the night, your hands that fit perfectly in mine, the playfulness in your soul.

There was a connection, it was undeniable. We both felt it and both spoke of it. But actions speak louder than words. And without warning you walked away, turned the page but left it blank.

Once in a while you carefully open the book and scribble down some notes. Never full sentences and never filling a page. Words left unspoken, thoughts left unwritten and question left unanswered.

The book still draws me in. I know the story by heart but I don’t dare pick it up. Longing to read it from the beginning. Scared to see the empty pages again. Knowing I can’t fill them myself.

I wish for the day you return and see the book left untouched on my shelf. That it will stil draw you in but this time hold you there. The wish you pick up a pen and start filling in the blank pages. Letting the lone sentences evolve into a story without an ending.

I hope for the day the book is filled with words but never overflowing. A story without a title or ending. Gilded edges and a ribbon bookmark, our names engraved on its spine. Will we write this story together? Will this story ever be mine?