I have lived a life measured in heartbeats and sunsets, while hers stretches like the horizon—endless, unchanging.
It aches, sometimes, to love something so vast.
I remember the day I first met her, not as the hero the stories claim, but as a boy lost in the woods, tears streaking my face because the world felt too big and I too small.
She appeared like a whisper, her hands weaving mana into the air until the barren ground bloomed—a field of flowers, soft petals in every color, surrounding me like a promise that beauty could emerge from nothing.
She didn't speak much. Just watched as I touched them, wonder replacing my fear.
Her gentleness was quiet, like that. Not the loud kindness of humans, but a steady presence that mended without demanding gratitude.
She vanished soon after, leaving only the flowers behind.
I never forgot.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Years later, when our paths crossed again and the journey began, I saw that gentleness woven into everything she did.
She would mend a villager's broken tool with a spell so precise it seemed effortless, her fingers tracing runes as if stroking a fragile wing.
Or cast a warming spell on us in the brutal northern winter, her touch light, almost absentminded, as though caring for others was as natural as breathing.
She never sought thanks. Never lingered for praise.
To her, it was ordinary.
To me, it was a revelation—how someone so ancient could hold the world with such soft hands.
I pined in silence, watching her collect spells like forgotten treasures, her eyes lighting with that rare spark of curiosity.
I wanted to tell her how she made the days feel infinite, even for me.
But words felt too mortal, too fleeting.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
The journey ended, and she left.
Ten years—my prime, my everything—dissolved like mist.
We parted at the crossroads, promises of reunion hanging in the air.
She walked away without a backward glance, as if those shared battles, those quiet nights by the fire, were just another chapter in her endless book.
Nothing.
I waited.
Letters went unanswered. Villages whispered of an elf mage passing through distant lands, always moving, always alone.
Fifty years.
Not once did she visit.
I aged—hair graying, steps slowing—while the world turned cruel, reminding me daily of the chasm between us.
Humans fade. Elves endure.
How unfair, to love across that divide.
I pined harder in those decades, replaying memories like worn scrolls: her laugh, rare and light; the way she tilted her head at human customs, puzzled but never judgmental.
I wished she would remember me—not as a companion, but as someone who saw her soul's quiet depths.
Yet, in darker moments, I wished she would forget, so my absence wouldn't echo in her eternity like a hollow note.
The world is cruel that way—giving us just enough time to love, but not enough to keep.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
She came, as promised, for the Era meteor shower.
I was old then, shrunken by time, my once-strong frame bent like a weathered tree.
She appeared unchanged—hair like moonlight, eyes holding centuries without a single wrinkle.
We sat on the hill, stars streaking above like fleeting wishes.
She spoke of spells and forgotten ruins, as if no time had passed.
I watched her, heart twisting with the old ache.
So beautiful. So gentle still, in the way she described the stars' paths with that soft precision.
Something surged—why couldn't I have more time? Why must she remain while I crumble?
But as the night deepened, acceptance settled, quiet as her presence.
She was here. That was enough.
The world's cruelty softened in that moment; perhaps it was mercy, letting me see her one last time.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
When I go—and the end draws near—I think of her at my funeral.
Part of me hopes she cries, that those ancient eyes well with tears, proving I mattered enough to pierce her timeless calm.
That she remembers the lost boy, the flowers, the journey, the silence between us.
Yet another part hopes she doesn't—that she walks away unchanged, unburdened, forgetting me like a passing season.
Because love like this shouldn't weigh her down.
She is gentle. Vast. Eternal.
And I was lucky to have bloomed in her field, even briefly.
That acceptance brings peace.
I only feel gratitude.
For her.