Entre la vie

To the boy I love — Should I start with the morning your voice greeted mine before the sun had even made its decision to rise? Or with the way you play guitar like it’s a secret form of prayer — bending sound into feeling until the air in the room forgets it’s just air? Maybe I start on Christmas — the day the universe casually handed me a miracle wrapped in skin and soul and laughter. I had no idea, then, how much you’d rewrite the way I understand love. But no, it’s deeper than any single day.

You hold space like a temple — quiet, honest, full of unspoken reverence. You open up the kind of space where a person could be anything — broken, blooming, confused, divine. And you’d still walk beside them, even into the dark corners. You never flinch. You just hold it all gently — like someone who’s not afraid to witness the truth, even when it trembles.

I’ve watched you stare at the sky as if you’re composing it —as if the clouds are waiting for your chord changes. And sometimes, I think the universe made a typo, and I’m the lucky error. Other times, I remember who I am: a woman who turns sidewalk cracks into metaphors and shadows into love letters. Of course the boy I love is made of sound and storm and stillness. Of course you smell like dreams and sing like redemption.

There’s the surface, sure: the guitar, the laughter that could melt metal, the curl of your hair in the soft light. The way you giggle — like the world’s still worth trusting. The way you cook — like you’re composing warmth into form. The way you live — thoughtfully, kindly, like every breath is a promise you’re keeping. And your eyes — those blue blue eyes, they shift in color depending on the light that touches them, just like your empathy — always adapting, always shining softly through. I get lost in them. Completely. Willingly. Over and over again. But beneath all that, there’s a cathedral made of tenderness. A man who meets life with calloused hands and an open heart. Who’s learned that strength isn’t in building walls, but in letting the light in, even when it hurts. You are not perfect. But my God, you are real. You hold grief and wonder in the same breath.

Some nights, you play something on your guitar — wordless, eternal and I know it’s a letter to the universe I’ll never be able to write,because you already played it for me. I’ve always loved writing — it’s how I breathe, how I stay alive. But nothing I write comes close to how your presence rewrites me. You don’t just inspire the art — you are the place the art is born from.

So yes, this is just a cheesy story about the boy I love. But really — it’s the story of how I finally understood what it means to be chosen by something holy.

-Vie(29.June.2025, To my McGoon)