The Idea of you

You listen.

Not just to my voice, but to the weight it carries. You catch my sighs mid-sentence. You know the difference between my silences,the ones that ask to be held and the ones that ask to be left alone. And somehow, you get it right every time.

You hold space for my overthinking.
You sit through my spirals like a lighthousecalm, constant, never asking me to come back quicker than I can.
You calm my chaos not by fixing it, but by making it less lonely.

And when you look at me,
with those steady, intense eyes,
I can’t meet your gaze for more than two seconds.
It’s too much.
Too honest.
Too bare.
Like you see things I haven’t even admitted to myself yet.

You hold my hand while crossing roads.
Not like a grand gesture, but like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Fingers interlocked, thumb gently tracing mine
like you’re telling me, “I’ve got you,”
without needing to say a word.

And in those moments,
I feel safe.
Seen.

But then, late at night,
when the world is quiet and my thoughts grow louder,
a question softly knocks:

Is it really you I’m in love with
or the way I imagine love should feel?

Do I love you,
or the idea of someone who listens when I speak without words,
who reads my silences,
who reaches for my hand before I even realize I need grounding?

What if I don’t know you,
not fully
just the version of you that fits into the story I’ve written in my head?

And what if someone else holds my hand just the same way,
looks at me with eyes just as kind,
but I don’t feel it in my chest?
What then?

Is love about the gesture,
or the soul behind it?
The feeling we chase,
or the person standing right in front of us?

Sometimes I wonder
do we fall in love with people,
or do we fall in love with the way we want to be loved?

Because the truth is
I want to be held before I fall apart.
I want to be chosen in quiet ways.
I want someone to trace circles on my hand at red lights
and ask how my day was like they really care.

But maybe,
I’ve poured all those wants into your shape.
Maybe I’ve loved you not for who you are,
but for who I needed you to be.

So here I am
sitting with that aching, terrifying question:

Do I want you?
Or just the idea of you?.