From the moment I met you, I wanted to know you. Not because you stood out in a crowd, not because you overwhelmed me—but because there was something in your eyes, in the way you smiled, in the quiet presence you carried that stirred a deep curiosity in me.
I wanted to know what colors you love, whether you stay up late, whether you’ve ever cried over a sad movie. I wanted to know if you believe in fate, if you’ve ever loved deeply, if you’ve ever been hurt. I wanted to know what you think when you look at the sky, when you hear an old song, when you stand at the crossroads of life.
It wasn’t because I wanted to rush into your world, but because I wanted to understand you—truly understand. To know the things you don’t say, the feelings you hide behind your smile, the stories only you carry. Because I believe that to love someone, you must first understand them in a way they’ve never been understood before.
From the moment I met you, I wanted to know you—not to change you, but to accept you. Not to shape you into something I imagined, but to see you with the most honest eyes. I wanted to know you, so I could love you—fully, deeply, and without regret.
