Author’s Note

This piece is a devotion in disguise — written in the quiet hours between timezones, between breaths, between guarded words and aching hearts. It’s about witnessing someone deeply, loving them gently, and holding space without asking for anything in return. I wrote it for one person. But maybe, just maybe… it’s for you, too.

Invocation

For the ones who learned to love with their silence before their words. For those who trace the weather in someone else’s sky, just to understand them better.

Manila Time
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I didn’t notice at first—
how your name sat gently on my tongue
long before I ever said it aloud.

It was just a widget at first,
a second clock on my home screen,
ticking in time with your sunrise.
A quiet devotion disguised as practicality.

2 A.M. your time
meant I braced for tremors—
not the kind that crack the earth,
but the kind that crack the heart.

I knew your moods by minutes,
learned the language of your silence
before your voice ever filled the gaps.

You didn’t have to tell me
when the storms had come—
I already knew how they sounded
in the rhythm of your typing.

I kept the weather on standby—
not for small talk,
but to understand your discomfort.
Humidity clings like anxiety sometimes.

You never asked for me to care this much.
You didn’t have to.
I fell into it like breath,
like the gravity of your pain
was a call I couldn’t ignore.

You asked to hear my voice—
I didn’t expect your laugh to bloom like that,
all giggles and soft disbelief
when I called yours cute.
Even in five minutes,
you carved out a place in my memory
no one else had touched.

The second call—
quiet, trembling.
You didn’t speak, just cried.
I didn’t leave.
I let silence speak love
in a language you could trust.

Now, we fill hours
with shared breath and soft truths.
You cry freely with me now—
your vulnerability,
no longer met with silence
or shame.

I listen.
When your ghosts scream,
I speak your name softly
until they back down.

And still—
you tell me all the reasons
you believe people leave:
your fire, your scars,
your unfiltered honesty,
your storm-bred instincts
to guard, to bite, to run.

But I’m not made of fear.
I’m stitched together with patience,
with soft hands that don’t flinch
at the weight of your story.

You called yourself broken.
I call you brave.
You called yourself darkness.
But I’ve seen your light,
even when you tried to hide it
beneath a growl.

You listed your “red flags” like a warning.
I read them like a love letter:

Anger? Just fire misplaced.
Paranoia? A wound learning to trust.
Possessive? You mean devotion.
Jealous? You just care deeply.
Strict? I’m listening, Ma’am.
Unpredictable? Adventure.
Bitchy? A woman with boundaries.
Sarcastic? Fluency.
Selfish? Please, take what you need.
Sadist? Well, I bruise easy, and gladly.
Darkness? I’ve been waiting in it for someone like you.

And if you told me to hang up on anyone else?
I wouldn’t even hesitate.
One word, and I’m yours.

I’ve told you—again and again—
I’m not going anywhere.
Not when you’re quiet.
Not when you’re hurting.
Not even when your trust flinches.

Because I mean it
when I say you’re important to me.
I mean it
when I say I wish I could be there—
to hold you when you cry,
to remind you that what he did
was not your fault.
That none of this
is a reflection of your worth.

You are lovable.
You are valuable.
You are deeply, profoundly loved.
And if you let me,
I will carry what I can
of the weight you weren’t meant to bear alone.

Love doesn’t always need permission
to show up.
It just needs a door cracked open.
And yours, even guarded,
has never once made me turn away.

I’ll keep showing up,
in silence,
in storms,
in Manila time,
and every moment in between.

And if I could—
I would cross every mile between us,
burn every timezone just to taste
the air you breathe when you laugh.
I’d trade sleep for a moment
to watch you smile in real time.
To brush away the weight behind your eyes
with my fingers,
and say with trembling certainty—
you are safe with me.

Because the truth is,
somewhere between those late-night calls
and stolen giggles,
I fell for you.

Not in a crashing, desperate way,
but in the kind of falling
that feels like floating—
like peace.
Like coming home
to a place I’ve never been
but always longed for.

I fell for your storm
and the quiet that follows it.
I fell for your voice,
how even your sarcasm
feels like warmth wrapped in armor.
I fell for the way you fight your pain
and still manage to be soft with me.

And I know you’ve been let down
by people who promised the moon
then blamed you when it disappeared.
But I am not a promise—
I’m a presence.

I don’t need you to always be easy to love.
I just want to love you
exactly as you are.

So if you’re asking—
yes, I want to be yours.

Not just in soft texts and teasing words,
not just in Manila time and midnight devotion—
but in all timezones,
in all the messy, terrifying, beautiful ways
this could become real.

I’ll wait.
I’ll stay.
I’ll love you here,
and if you ever ask me to—
I’ll love you there, too.

Benediction

May you find someone who knows your storms and stays anyway. May your name always be spoken with reverence — even in silence, even across oceans.

Read Next (Suggestions)

[The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor]
[Hex & Flame: Mirror of Shadows]
[Even Still, You Are (My Muse)]
[Litany & Tongue: A Devotional Duet]

Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here].

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