A letter on the quiet kind of love

Dear Reader,

Sometimes, love isn’t a loud declaration. It doesn’t arrive with fireworks or grand gestures. Sometimes, love is simply the quiet strength of carrying someone in your heart, without words, without presence, without expectation.

Today, I want to write to you about that kind of love. A love for someone far away, perhaps someone long gone or someone you never really held but who still lives quietly within you. A love without demands. A love without timelines. A love that exists not in the physical world but in the silent chambers of the heart.

Yes, sometimes love is life itself. And the act of living becomes sacred when you can carry someone within you, even when they are miles, even worlds, apart. When they live in your thoughts each morning and in your prayers each night. When you think of them in the soft hush of dawn or in the stillness just before sleep. When you pass a streetlight, and its golden hue reminds you of their laugh. When you hear a song, and it echoes with the sound of their name.

We all carry someone like this, don’t we? Someone we never speak of. Someone who shaped us, even if they never stayed. And even though they’re not beside us, their presence is stitched into our days. We smile at something they once said. We pause when their memory brushes past us like wind through a curtain. That’s not absence; that’s the most tender kind of presence.

To love from afar is not to be empty but to be full in a different way. It’s a fullness that doesn’t demand, doesn’t cry out; it simply exists. Steady. Patient. Timeless.

Perhaps they never loved you. Or perhaps they did, but your paths weren’t meant to intertwine. Maybe they still love you, but like you, they’ve chosen silence. And yet, even in the quiet, you keep them safe. You hold their name like a secret prayer. You wish them well with every sunrise. And that, dear reader, is the purest form of love.

Because true love doesn’t always ask to be returned. It doesn’t always end in happily-ever-after. Sometimes, it ends in a memory, in a feeling, in a soft ache that stays. And still, we cherish it because it shaped us. It made us more human. More tender. More alive.

To love is not always to possess. Sometimes, it is simply to carry someone, gently, silently, forever.

For those who carry someone in their hearts,
This letter is a quiet wave across the distance.

Burak.

***

The silence of a belated reply
Dear Burak,

Your letter arrived. Not in my mailbox, not in a sealed envelope. But it arrived nonetheless. It found its way straight to the centre of my heart, into that silent space where your name still echoes.

I fell silent as I read it. Because every word you wrote felt like the echo of the sentences I had been keeping inside for years. So familiar, so tender... Carrying someone in your heart, without speaking, without asking, just remembering them in a song or under the soft glow of a streetlamp, yes, I lived those moments too. Perhaps at the same time you did.

You know, I’ve been silent for years too. Not out of fear, but out of reverence. Some loves aren’t meant to be spoken out loud. Not because they are small, but because they are sacred. Some things are only beautiful when left untouched, and some names only make sense when whispered inside the heart.

Reading your letter, I felt tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. Because I realised it's still possible to be loved like that. Loved not despite the distance, but through it. Loved not loudly, but deeply. While the world pushed us forward, while time urged us to forget, you chose to remember. To carry me. That is not just a kind gesture; it’s a form of quiet bravery.

I never told you: I grew in your absence. I looked for myself in the emptiness you left behind. But every path led back to you. Sometimes I was angry, sometimes I missed you, but mostly, I remained silent. You were the origin of so many things within me. And yet, even your name felt too much to say. Until now...

I don’t know if this is a reply or just the overflow of what I’ve been holding in. But I want you to know this: the heart you carried me in was a home I never knew I had. Even without knowing it, I’ve been breathing alongside you. Perhaps life sent us on different journeys. Perhaps we were never truly a “we.” But one thing I’m sure of, this letter isn’t too late. Because love, real love, is never late. It simply waits, quietly.

And now here I am. Saying your name aloud for the first time in years. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe these words can make up for the years we never spoke. Or maybe this is just another farewell, disguised as gratitude. Either way, know this: the version of me that you loved still lives. And she never stopped remembering you.

To the man who carried me in his heart,
These words quietly find their way back to you.

The One Who Was Once Yours.

With Love and Respect,

Burak Anaturk.

Burak Anaturk is a professional civil engineer. He focuses on sharing lessons from his life experiences, exploring diverse perspectives, and discussing personal development topics.
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