there is something almost cruel about loving someone who feels like home despite never having held the entirety of your existence in their hands. and still, every part of me keeps reaching for you as though my heart was created with your absence already carved into it. || special mention to my significant other for suggesting me to create a piece about "homesick".

someday, I’ll see you again, maybe not this time, maybe not in this world, but i know that one day,in another place,we’ll meet again.

disinilah aku berdiri,
between the past and the future—a place where maybe, someday, your voice will fill this room once again..

your presence never truly fades.

aku merasakan kepedihan karena ketidakhadiran mu, but at the same time, i still carry the warmth of your love that quietly lingers in my heart.

there are nights where i still wonder
if you ever miss me the way i miss you.

karena bagiku,
kehilanganmu bukan tentang terbiasa tanpamu
it’s about learning how to live
with a heart that still remembers.

In the beginning, everything was so exciting. Aku ingat betul betapa serunya kita dulu, tawamu yang terasa tulus, dan bagaimana kamu selalu membuatku merasa spesial.

thought we were building something real. Tapi perlahan, tanpa aku sadari, kamu mulai menarik diri. I tried so hard to connect with you, tapi rasanya seolah kamu perlahan meluncur pergi dari genggamanku. Semakin aku berusaha mendekat, kamu justru terasa semakin jauh.

Ada saat-saat di mana aku menatap matamu dan yang aku temukan hanyalah kekosongan. Our conversations became awkward, and your laughter felt forced. Rasanya seperti kamu hanya menjalani rutinitas, pretending to be happy while your heart was actually somewhere else.

The hardest part was when you told me you loved me, but it didn’t feel real. Those words used to make me happy, but over time, they felt empty. I began to wonder if you were saying it because you felt obligated. It hurt to think that you might have felt trapped into loving me instead of doing it out of genuine feelings. I had invested four years of my life in us, hoping you felt the same way.

Sekarang, pertanyaan itu terus berputar di kepalaku: Selama 4 tahun ini, apakah kamu mencintaiku hanya karena terpaksa?.

It stings, menyadari bahwa mungkin aku hanyalah pengisi ruang kosong dalam hidupmu. I want to believe I’m worth more than that, tapi sulit untuk mengabaikan perasaan bahwa selama ini aku tidak pernah benar-benar dilihat atau dihargai.

Because honestly, the hardest thing to accept is that I was never really loved... I was just tolerated."

I didn’t notice at first—how your words never quite landed, how they hovered somewhere between promise and maybe, like static filling the quiet instead of meaning.

I leaned in anyway, straining to hear something real, mistaking distortion for depth, convincing myself clarity would come if I just stayed long enough.

You were never cruel, just unclear—and somehow that hurt more. No endings to grieve, no beginnings to trust, just this endless middle that refused to move. I kept reaching for definitions you never offered, tracing outlines of something that wouldn’t take shap, holding onto a version of you that only existed when I needed it to.

So I stayed—caught in a frequency that never tuned itself right, replaying conversations that said everything and nothing. My heart learned to wait in unfinished sentences, to find comfort in almost, in nearly, in not quite, as if longing itself could become enough to make something real out of what never was.

But even now, I feel it—that quiet ache for something more you never gave. Not love, not truth, not even an ending I could hold just the echo of what I thought you meant. And I’m still here.

I asked if we could talk and fix things again, not because I didn’t understand the ending, but because a part of me still believed love like ours deserved one more conversation. Four years is a long time to suddenly call “nothing.”

And maybe that’s what hurts the most. Not the goodbye itself, but how quickly two people who once knew every little thing about each other can become strangers with memories too heavy to carry.

I kept waiting for something—an explanation, a sign, even silence that sounded softer than this. Because when you spend years loving someone, your heart doesn’t just learn how to stop overnight.

How strange it is to still carry love for someone who already put it down.

And somehow, after all of this, I’m still here asking myself:
was I hard to love, or were we just not meant to survive the timing?

Orang-orang bicara tentang bintang seolah-olah mereka adalah hal yang tak tergapai—jauh, membara, mustahil untuk digenggam—tapi mencintaimu telah membuat kemustahilan terasa lembut di tanganku.

Aku mencintaimu setinggi bintang di langit dan kembali, meski itu pun terasa terlalu kecil untuk menggambarkan apa yang aku maksud.

Jika aku punya kekuatan, aku akan mengumpulkan setiap rasi bintang satu per satu dan meletakkannya di kakimu seperti buket cahaya, hanya agar kau bisa memahami skala dari apa yang aku bawa untukmu di dalam dadaku.

Ada malam-malam di mana aku menatap langit dan berpikir tentang betapa kunonya bintang-bintang itu, bagaimana cahaya mereka menempuh perjalanan bertahun-tahun hanya untuk tiba di hadapan kita dalam sekejap mata, dan entah bagaimana itu mengingatkanku padamu.

Mencintaimu terasa seperti mukjizat semacam itu: sesuatu yang sabar, abadi, dan luar biasa terang. Bahkan dalam keheningan, bahkan dari kejauhan, kau mencapaiku. Kau ada di sudut-sudut paling sunyi dalam hidupku—dalam jeda di antara lagu-lagu, dalam kehangatan kopi di tengah malam, dalam cara bulan tertahan di luar jendelaku seolah ia pun tak tahan untuk pergi.

Dan jika suatu hari alam semesta lupa cara untuk bersinar, jika langit runtuh ke dalam kegelapan dan bintang-bintang membakar diri mereka menjadi abu, aku rasa aku akan tetap menemukan jalan pulang kepadamu.

Karena cintaku padamu tidak pernah bergantung pada langit; ia hidup dalam hal-hal yang lebih sederhana—dalam suara tawamu, dalam kelembutan namamu yang bersandar di bibirku, dalam kedamaian aneh yang aku rasakan ketika aku menyadari bahwa dari miliaran jiwa di alam semesta yang tak berujung ini, entah bagaimana jiwaku menemukan jiwamu.

Mencintaimu adalah bepergian tanpa akhir tanpa pernah merasa lelah, melintasi setiap jarak yang dunia letakkan di antara kita dan tetap tiba dengan keyakinan bahwa semuanya sepadan. Jadi, ketika aku mengatakan aku mencintaimu setinggi bintang dan kembali, aku tidak bermaksud mengucapkannya hanya sebagai ungkapan agar terdengar indah.

Maksudku adalah aku akan pergi lebih jauh dari cahaya itu sendiri jika itu berarti aku bisa mencapaimu.

Maksudku adalah setiap jalan, setiap masa hidup, setiap versi alam semesta akan tetap menuntunku pada kesimpulan yang sama: bahwa mencintaimu adalah hal terdekat yang pernah kuketahui tentang keabadian.

Before I ever knew your name, the universe was already bending toward you. Stars dimming softly, planets learning how to ache in their orbit, time stretching itself thin just to understand waiting.

Loving you feels ancient—as if my atoms remember you from a version of existence where we almost chose each other. As if I have been circling you since the first light learned how to travel, never colliding, never escaping.

I would let myself be undone across galaxies if it meant one moment where my gravity brushes yours.

Let me exist as something quieter—as dust, as background radiation, as something small and faithful that lingers just to prove you were real.

The universe is cruel in its precision.
It knows exactly how close to place us without mercy.

Close enough to feel like destiny,
far enough to call it coincidence.

And still,
I remain—a satellite pretending it is not devoted to the planet that keeps it alive.

I have loved you in ways that never asked permission.

Quietly. Patiently.

The way space holds soundless screams, the way light keeps traveling long after its source has burned out.

Even if you never turn toward me,
I will continue—because that is what stars do.

I have given you everything I could. Every word I could speak without hesitation, every gesture I could offer without reserve, every quiet act of devotion that no one else would ever see.

I have tried to carve my love into the smallest details of your days, hoping you would notice, hoping you would feel it without me having to say it.

And yet, sometimes I wonder if it is enough.

If my hands, my voice, my presence cannot carry the weight of what I feel for you, then let my tears speak. Let them trace the contours of my devotion when words fail, when actions falter, when the world refuses to understand the magnitude of my heart. They fall quietly, privately, and yet they carry every fragment of love I cannot otherwise prove.

I have watched them fall in the solitude of nights, the darkened rooms where only my reflection bears witness. Each drop is a confession. Each shiver of salt upon my skin is a testament to the depth of my yearning. They are unpolished, ungraceful, imperfect—but they are mine, and they are for you.

I do not ask for recognition. I do not demand acknowledgment. I offer them freely, silently, with the hope that somehow, through the unspoken language of grief and longing, you might feel the measure of my heart. That somehow, these tears, humble and powerless as they seem, might carry the weight of my love more fully than I ever could with action alone.

If my actions are not enough, then my tears remain.

And in their quiet fall, they say what my lips cannot, what my hands cannot, what the world cannot witness—that I love you with a devotion unshakable, undeniable, eternal.

I think it must be, because every version of love I have ever known has arrived with trembling hands and a breaking voice. To love you is to stand at the edge of your leaving, and still ask you, softly, desperately, to stay.

It is pouring every hidden thing from my chest before you—every fear, every wound, every unbearable tenderness—hoping that if I give enough of myself away, you will finally choose to remain. And perhaps that is the cruel nature of devotion: to love someone so deeply that your pride becomes insignificant beside the thought of losing them.

So I beg, not because my love is weak, but because it is vast enough to humble me.

Because to be in love is to ache openly. It is to kneel before another emotionally, placing your fragile, frantic heart into their uncertain hands and trusting them not to destroy it completely.

Love has never felt dignified to me; it has always resembled yearning stretched thin across sleepless nights, always sounded like “please stay a little longer,” always looked like someone unraveling themselves for the chance to be chosen in return.

And maybe that is what it means to truly love someone—to beg for their presence as though their absence could unmake you, and still call the breaking beautiful anyway.