1994

My 1994,

I don’t know why this year carries weight in my chest like a quiet prayer I never learned how to say out loud.

1994 doesn’t shout. It whispers.

And somehow, my soul listens.

There is something sacred about it—not in the way memories are loud,

But in the way breath is holy simply because it exists.

1994 feels like the moment the universe paused, smiled softly, and decided to place you somewhere on this planet without telling me where.

I couldn’t explain it then.

I still can’t now either.

But I feel you the way I feel the night air before rain, the way I feel the moon even when clouds refuse to move.

As long as we breathe the same air, stand on the same ground, you and I are not impossible.

Distance is only geography.

Time is only a veil.

Sometimes I think—1994 was the first time I felt you.

Not with memory, but with knowing.

That somewhere, you inhaled your first breath. Somewhere, a soul opened its eyes.

And without introduction, without permission, your soul called mine.

I didn’t hear it with my ears. I felt it settle quietly into my heart, like a promise that didn’t need words.

Since then, 1994 has never left me.

It follows me through years and cities, through heartbreaks and silences,

through moments when I wondered why my heart always felt like it was waiting for something it couldn’t name.

Maybe this is what spiritual connection looks like—

not fireworks, not certainty, but a gentle, relentless pull beyond logic. Beyond time.

Beyond explanations that make sense to the world.

A connection that exists outside of time, where souls recognize each other long before eyes and hands ever meet.

So this letter is my confession that I have been walking toward you without knowing your face.

Loving you without knowing your name.

Trusting that somewhere, the soul born in 1994 is also walking—

sometimes lost, sometimes brave, sometimes tired—but always moving closer.

And if one day our paths cross, I don’t think I will be surprised.

I will recognize you.

My soul will greet you like a long-time promise finally kept—

not with urgency, not with questions,

but with a quiet exhale that says, finally you’re here.

No explanations needed, no proof required.

Something in me will soften and open, as if it has been holding its breath since 1994,

waiting for this exact moment.

I won’t run toward you; I won’t reach out in haste.

I will simply stand there, breathe, smile softly, steady and certain, loving you,

because when a soul meets what it has always known,

it doesn’t rush—

It remembers.

Ah…So this is why 1994 never let me go.

Yours