Maybe in another life

She sits by the window, the last light of day slipping through the glass, painting her room in gold and shadow. Her heart aches in ways she cannot name — a longing too deep, too dangerous for words. She thinks of him again, of the impossibility of their meeting, and yet she feels him in every heartbeat, every breath.

He had said, “Maybe in another life…” and she had smiled through the ache, saying, “Then I’ll wait for that life.” That single exchange had left a mark deeper than any wound, burning brighter than any hope she had ever known. Because in her heart, she already believed it — that love can exist beyond time, beyond fate, even beyond death.

She imagines him sometimes, not as he is, but as he could be in that other life: eyes soft, hands steady, voice calm and warm. They walk together in streets she has never seen, talk in moments she has never lived, laugh in ways her real world has never allowed. And yet, the fantasy is both balm and poison — it comforts her, but it reminds her of what she will never hold.

Maybe she’ll die before that life comes. Maybe she’ll never feel his hand in hers, never hear him say her name in the way her soul is already attuned to. But even in that shadowed thought, she does not despair. She is fierce in her waiting, quiet in her longing, and relentless in her love. It is a love unbound by reality, unbroken by absence, immortal in the chambers of her heart.

And somewhere, in the faint echoes of the universe, she believes he feels it too. Perhaps he does not know her yet, perhaps he has not recognized the gravity of her existence. But in the threads of possibility, in the spaces between moments and lifetimes, their hearts are already intertwined — fragile, aching, and eternal.

She closes her eyes, letting the darkness gather around her, and whispers to the night, “I’ll wait for you, in every life, until the stars forget my name.”

Because some loves are not meant to be lived.
They are meant to be felt.
And she will feel it,
for all her days, for all her nights,
for all the impossible lifetimes she has yet to live.