I’m in Love With the Impossibility of Us

I am in love with the idea of us — every impossible inch of it. It’s a dangerous kind of love, isn’t it? The kind that sits quietly in the corner of your heart, feeding on every “What if” and “maybe someday.” It’s not the loud, reckless passion that people write songs about. No, this is something softer, more haunting, like a whisper that never leaves.

I’ve replayed our story in my head a thousand times, but each time I rewrite the ending, I find myself trapped between reality and a dream. We are parallel lines, so close and never to meet. And I’m still chasing that ghost of a future that may never be. I see us, feel us, where nothing tangible to hold would ever be. Is it not funny how something so invisible can feel so real?

I love the impossibility for it allowed me to dream without any sense of burden from expectations. You are flawless in this place that my mind has created; no flaws, no arguments, no misunderstandings — just us in a sublime uncertainty. I can love you here without fear because, in my mind, we’re always right where we’re supposed to be.

Maybe I’m a fool, but I’ve always found beauty in the unattainable.

Loving you from afar allows me to believe in something bigger than myself. It is not about possession or reality, but about hope, no matter how evanescent. It is the kind of love that keeps me up all night, staring up to the ceiling and thinking if you are somewhere out there, thinking of me too.

I know well that if we ever tried, the reality of us would shatter this fragile fantasy I’ve built. And so, I stay on this precipice-balancing between desire and resignation-letting myself fall deeper in the impossibility. It’s love that aches; somehow, I find comfort in the pain because it’s proof that what I feel is real, even if we never will be.

So, I’ll keep loving the impossible version of us, because in that impossibility, you are mine, and I am yours, in a way that feels almost divine. We’re the story that never get written, the song that never gets sung. And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe some things are meant to be felt, not lived.

I am in love with the impossibility of us because it’s the only place where we exist perfectly — without fear, without doubt, without end. And if that’s all we’ll ever ne, then that’s enough for me.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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