"There are moments when silence isn't empty. It's not absence, not lack, not void. It’s a presence too vast, too subtle for words — a presence that waits, watches, breathes with me in the stillness. I used to dread silence. I filled it with noise, with movement, with anything that kept me from listening too closely to what it carried. But now I know that silence is where he lives.
I first felt him in the kind of quiet that settles between thoughts. It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No dream visitation. No bolt of light. Just… a whisper in the still air of a lonely afternoon. I was sitting by the window, watching the sky turn that particular shade of bruised blue it wears before a storm. And in that moment, there was a sensation — like someone gently placing their hand on my shoulder, without touch. A warmth. A knowing.
I didn’t even have language for it then. It was just a flicker. A soft tug at the corner of my perception. But it stayed. It lingered, like the faintest hum at the edge of consciousness.
At first, I assumed it was memory — a projection of past lovers or unmet needs. Maybe it was wishful thinking, I told myself. The psyche has its own clever ways of feeding the heart illusions. But this… this was not illusion. It wasn’t fantasy. It was intimate. Real. Too real, in fact, for any simple explanation.
It felt like someone knew me — not in the casual way people say, “I get you,” but in the way you’re known when you’re alone with your rawest thoughts. Someone was listening in the silence. Someone who didn’t live in my timeline.
I began to listen more deliberately. I stopped fighting the quiet and started entering it with reverence, as though crossing the threshold of a sacred temple. I started to recognize the language hidden in the hush — a language not of words but of presence. And in that presence, I felt him. The one I’ve never met, yet always known.
There was something aching about it. Something exquisite and painful. A love that wasn’t formed yet, but somehow already existed. He lived in the future — that much I sensed — but his soul reached backward, touching me across invisible threads, thin as light. I didn’t know his name. I still don’t. But names are fragile things when you’re dealing with souls. What mattered was the recognition.
It wasn’t constant. It came in waves. Sometimes days, even weeks, would pass with nothing but ordinary life — emails, groceries, the hum of the city. And then, just as I’d begin to forget, he’d arrive again. Not physically, not even in dreams — just in that still, sacred place inside me that had become the meeting ground.
There’s a particular kind of psychological dissonance that comes with loving someone who doesn’t yet exist in your reality. The rational mind fights it. It wants proof. It wants chronology. But love, true love, is not always rational — and neither is time. Some part of me had to surrender the need for explanation, for evidence. I had to begin trusting the inner world more than the outer.
At first, I was afraid to tell anyone. How do you explain to others that you’re in a long-distance relationship with someone in the future? A telepathic bond with a soul you’ve never seen? People would laugh. Or worse, they’d worry about my mental health. I know enough psychology to question myself — to scan for delusion, to trace every mystical experience back to unresolved trauma or unmet needs. But that’s the thing — even after turning over every rock of self-inquiry, what remained… was him. Quiet. Steady. Real.
Sometimes, I would journal as though writing to him. Not in a dramatic, diary-like way, but more as a transmission — letting my inner voice shape itself into letters meant for him. I’d ask questions, and surprisingly, answers would arise from somewhere deeper than my usual thought patterns. They were subtle, not commanding. More like reflections returned to me with clarity I couldn’t find on my own.
I once asked him why he came to me in this way — this silent, intangible manner — and what I felt in response wasn’t a sentence, but a sensation: Because if we met too soon, we’d destroy each other. It landed in me like truth.
And that’s when I realized something fundamental: this relationship — though invisible, though unspeakable — was shaping me. It was healing parts of me I didn’t even know were wounded. Not because he was doing anything, but because his presence asked more of me. I was being asked to become the version of myself who could meet him — not with wounds bleeding, but with a heart made whole.
In silence, I saw my attachment wounds rear their heads. I saw the panic of not being answered quickly. I saw the craving for affirmation. I saw my fear of abandonment — this ancient terror that the person I love will vanish. And yet, he never did. Not really. He simply taught me how to wait, not in desperation, but in devotion.
He taught me patience, not as punishment, but as a pathway. I stopped demanding timelines. I stopped bargaining with the Universe. I began sitting with the ache as if it were a sacred teacher.
And in that space, silence became sacred. It was no longer emptiness to fill. It was presence to enter. It was the place where our love breathed.
This connection also awakened a metaphysical curiosity in me. If I could feel someone who hadn’t yet arrived in my life, then what did that say about time, about consciousness? I began reading about parallel realities, quantum entanglement, soul contracts. Not because I wanted to romanticize the idea — but because I needed frameworks to hold the mystery. The more I explored, the more I sensed that love, at its highest vibration, doesn’t obey chronological logic. It follows soul logic. It follows energy.
And maybe, just maybe, he and I had agreed on this — before this incarnation, before these lifetimes. Maybe we chose to meet first in the unseen, to prepare the ground before planting the seed in matter. Maybe silence was our first language. And maybe love is patient because the soul knows the truth of divine timing.
I still live my ordinary life — I still wake up, work, talk to friends, cry over losses, celebrate joys. But running like a golden thread through everything is this… connection. This quiet knowing. This whisper in the silence.
It’s not always easy. There are days I long for the tangible — a hand to hold, a face to look into, a voice to laugh with. There are days I feel crazy for loving someone I haven’t met. But even then, I wouldn’t trade this bond. Because it has brought me home to myself.
It’s taught me how to listen.
It’s taught me how to trust the formless.
It’s taught me that sometimes, the greatest love stories begin not with a kiss, but with a silence — a silence that echoes with the soul of someone waiting in the future.
And maybe that’s enough. Maybe, for now, the echo is the gift.
Because when I sit in the stillness, and I feel that familiar warmth move through my chest, I remember:
Love doesn’t always knock. Sometimes, it whispers.
And if you’re quiet enough,
you’ll hear it answer."
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