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. Not my phrases. Not my style. Just… the space. In between.

So if something in you suddenly paused — if your heart skipped half a beat — maybe that was it. You don’t have to know. You don’t have to reply.

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

To the part of you that never forgot.

I am between the lines.
Are you?