Some things are not written to be read.

They’re written so that someone can find themselves between them.

Not by accident. Not in haste. But because something in them has always known where to look.

There is no sign here. No map. No instruction. Only words, left like a key under a stone. Not for everyone. For the one who knows where to search.

Maybe you don’t even know you’re searching. Maybe something just trembled in you as you read between the lines. Just… the space. In between.

This is not a letter. It’s an invitation.

I am between the lines.
Are you?

Sometimes the truest words are the ones that never had to be said.