"You asked me not to build bridges. I built the whole city."

I never told you about the weight I lost.

Not the numbers. The reason.

I wanted to stand next to you in a photograph someday

and not apologize for what I looked like.

You never asked me to.

That was the thing about you.

You never asked me for anything.

And I never told you what I needed.

We were both very good at that.

Thirty kilometers you built, alone, in secret,

just to ride beside me.

I set the bar and you cleared it quietly

without telling me you were even trying.

Maybe that's the closest we ever got

to saying what we meant.

Two wheels, Early morning and one sided date at sudha.

I watched you work once —

concentrating, typing fast,

completely somewhere else.

I was supposed to be finishing work.

I finished nothing.

You said don't build bridges in your head.

I said okay.

I lied.

I built the whole city.

And when it fell,

I blamed the ground

for not holding.

The truth is simpler and harder:

I loved you the way I do everything —

completely, quietly, without asking

if there was room for me on the other side.

There wasn't.

You told me that on day one.

I just kept building anyway.

I'm not angry anymore.

Not at you.

You were exactly who you said you were.

I was the one who didn't listen.

I am still here.

Without you.

And I miss you.

Not the version I imagined.

Not the one I built bridges toward.

I miss the version of me

that existed because you were nearby.

The one who woke up early.

Who pushed harder.

Who wanted to be worth standing next to.

I haven't found him again yet.

But I'm still looking.