I do not search in the written pages of love

I do not search in the written pages of love, nor in the films dancing on screens, not that I bear any hidden burden against the longing that illuminates souls, even I, a traveler through the world's dreams, know that love is life's most beautiful gift. But perhaps I was not meant to be the hero of my own story, I see myself among those pages and images as a shadow without a song, not as the lover full of desire, but as the one who stands silently on the edge, watching and waiting, never stepping into the flowing story. Every tale has someone like him, the one who smiles in secret, who hides his sadness in corners where light doesn't reach, who loves from afar, like a star watching over a sky of dreams, and yet claps the loudest when love finds its way. He is the one who watches his love slip into another's hands, and whispers to himself, "This is how it was meant to be," like an echo of fate, and in that moment, a story is born within him, a silent and unspoken one, but one he carries always, like a talisman of his heart. And so, he remains the storyteller of an unseen love, a spirit, a traveler among the dreams of others, witness to love that blossoms, with his heart like an open book, written with tears of stars, remaining in the shadows, part of a story greater than himself.