Can I hold your hand— not as a passing comfort, but as an anchor through storms, as the steady pulse beside you when lightning claws the sky and the world shakes itself apart? Can I be the one who learns the language of your silence, who understands the weight hidden between your breaths, and still stays— not asking you to speak, just reminding you that you are heard? Can I be here when your shoulders sag beneath the unbearable gravity of living, to remind you, gently, that love can feel like weightlessness, like the hush before dawn, like light spilling in through cracked blinds? Can I love you not in grand gestures, but in small, endless ways— in every glance that lingers, in every word softened for you, in every heartbeat that insists you belong? And if time itself forgets our names, let my love be stubborn enough to outlive the silence, a vow pressed into the bones of the earth.