If You Were Here
Valentine’s Day was never about roses for him.
It was always about presence.
About the quiet, ordinary things he imagined doing
if she were here.
If you were here,
I wouldn’t take you somewhere loud.
I would choose a quiet café with warm lights
where conversations don’t need to compete with music.
I would sit across from you
and watch you speak—
not because I haven’t heard your stories before,
but because your expressions change every time.
If you were here,
I would want to walk without destination.
Let the evening stretch slowly.
Let our shoulders brush occasionally
like a secret.
I would want to try silence with you.
Not awkward silence—
the kind where nothing is wrong
and nothing needs to be filled.
If you were here,
I would memorize the small things—
how you fix your hair when the wind interrupts,
how your eyes soften when you listen carefully,
how your voice lowers when you speak about something that matters.
I would want to try holding your hand
not to claim you,
but to understand what steadiness feels like.
I would want to rest my forehead against yours
and feel if our breaths find the same rhythm.
I would want to laugh at something meaningless
and notice how beautiful you look
when you forget to be composed.
If you were here,
I wouldn’t promise forever.
I would promise today.
I would promise to look at you
like you are not temporary.
I would promise to listen
like your thoughts are sacred.
I would promise to stay in the moment
without rushing it toward an ending.
Because longing has taught me something cruel—
sometimes the most intense love
exists in imagination.
And yet…
If you were here,
I would not try to make the day perfect.
I would let it be human.
Maybe we would disagree about something small.
Maybe we would laugh too loudly.
Maybe we would sit in comfortable quiet
watching the sky turn darker.
And in that ordinary, imperfect evening,
I would realize—
It was never about Valentine’s Day.
It was about the chance
to experience life beside you.
To try mornings.
To try bad moods.
To try late-night conversations when sleep refuses us.
To try being tired together.
To try choosing each other again and again
without performance.
If you were here,
I would not ask for fireworks.
I would ask for time.
Because love, at its deepest,
is not intensity.
It is willingness.
And if you were here tonight,
I would look at you quietly
and think—
This is what I wanted to try.
Not a day.
Not a celebration.
Just a life,
with you in it.
