There are people who were by our side every day, as silent as the ceiling fan, like the kitchen light spilling out in the evening, like a bowl of rice placed ready on the table. They didn't say much. Didn't do anything particularly special. But later, whenever we think of their absence, they are the first ones we think of.
I still remember my grandmother used to sit by the window every afternoon. Her eyes were weak, but her hands still traced each thread. Every time I came home, her figure was always there. As if she were a part of the house, as if that silent shadow would always be there, unchanging. Then one day, she was no longer sitting there.
I used to think love had to be words, clear actions, carefully wrapped gifts. But I was wrong. The deepest affection sometimes lies in a presence that asks for nothing. No teaching, no advice, no sighs. Just... being there. Beside us, in the moments when we are not good at anything, not happy about anything, needing nothing but someone who won't leave.
Time has no sound. It doesn't knock on the door to announce: "I'm flowing by, remember to make the most of it." It just flows past, like a cool stream that our hands don't feel cold enough to hold onto. We keep thinking today can be like yesterday. That that person will still be there tomorrow. But no one knows which morning will be the last morning they see someone sitting in a familiar corner.
I used to make many people wait. I also used to postpone visits. I'd think, "another day," "we'll meet later," "I'll text when I'm free." And then, a part of those "other days" never came. People didn't get angry, didn't blame, didn't say anything. They just silently disappeared from the appointments I thought could be rescheduled. Just like that, and it turned out to be forever.
I gradually realize: when someone gives you their time, it's not the spare slot they had, but the part they chose to cut out of their own life to keep for you. A phone call during work hours. A text asking how you are while their child is being fussy. Waiting for you in the rain, even though they knew for sure you'd be late today. All those small things are not small. It's a part of their life that they didn't give to anyone else.
We often think that the people who love us will always be there. But presence is not a given. It's a decision, repeated every day. And the older we get, the more we understand: being present together is hard, being fully present is even harder. Adults often don't have time. And when they give it to someone, it means they've refused many other things.
I keep thinking about what is "precious" in a relationship. It's not how deep the love is, but who is patient enough to stay by your side when you are not lovable, not interesting, have nothing good to say. When you are just yourself – empty, tired, meaningless. If someone still stays at those times, you have received something that few people get in this lifetime.
Because people can return gifts, transfer back money, unfriend you, leave a conversation. But once time is given, it can never be taken back. Whether it's an ordinary morning, or a simple nod: "I'm free, do you need anything?" — these are all irreplaceable pieces of time.
Later, I don't remember everyone who said they loved me, or what gifts they gave me. But I remember very clearly — those who sat beside me during the times in my life when I had nothing worth keeping.
Because presence, it turns out, is the most precious gift, and also the gift... most easily forgotten.
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