I didn’t write this book to be understood. I wrote it because some memories don’t leave you alone unless you give them a place to rest.

This is not a story about love reaching its destination. It is about love while it is still unfinished — when it is tender, confusing, ordinary, and quietly life-changing. I wrote what I couldn’t say out loud, and I stopped where words began to feel dishonest.

If something here feels familiar, it isn’t because our lives are the same. It’s because feelings don’t belong to anyone. They pass through us, asking only to be witnessed.

For me, loving and living are the same.
I write to love more, and therefore to live more.

Peace be with us.