There is a quiet kind of magic in the way your name arrives in my thoughts — softly, and often, and always welcome. Some people are chapters. You are the whole book, dog-eared and beloved, the one I keep returning to.
I have loved you in ordinary hours: in the hum of a waiting room, in the last minutes of a long day, in the small silence between one breath and the next. None of it was ordinary. All of it was you.
If love is a language, then I have been writing your name in every sentence I never said out loud. So here it is, in ink, where it cannot be mistaken —
I love you, Sima.
Not quietly anymore. Not carefully. Completely.