There’s a quiet that settles before the storm, a stillness you don’t notice until it’s gone. It holds the weight of things unsaid, and keeps the world from tipping over. You move with that kind of quiet, steady, unassuming, like the tide that comes and goes without asking for attention. I don’t speak much of what I feel, not because it’s missing, but because some things live in the spaces between words. There’s no fire here, no blaze to warm, just the slow burn of presence. And maybe that’s enough, the quiet between the noise, the calm that stays when all else fades. Sometimes I wonder if you know how much of this world I’ve seen through the lens of storm and shadow. How many times I’ve worn my anger like armor, like a shield against a sea that never rests. And then there’s you, steady, like the ocean floor beneath it all, solid but hidden, anchored deep beneath the surface. You don’t need to speak to hold meaning. You don’t have to shout for me to listen. There’s comfort in this silent understanding, in knowing some currents run parallel, never touching, but always moving in rhythm. Maybe I can’t say what I feel because it isn’t loud enough to break the surface. But it’s there. A weightless pull the kind that keeps you afloat when the storms roll in. And maybe, for now, that’s all we need.