I went to this huge bookstore with my friends yesterday—the kind that smells like old paper and quiet dreams. We were just wandering, not really looking for anything, when I saw a few of Rumi's books tucked into a shelf. My chest did this small thing, like it tightened and softened all at once. I didn't even know how much I missed that feeling until one of them turned to me and said,
"You really like Rumi, don't you?"
I just kind of froze.
Because yeah, I do like him—but not for the reasons she probably thought.
I love Rumi because the only two people I've ever truly loved, loved him.
And if I'm being honest, I've never fully understood his poetry. Not the way I wanted to. The only moments it ever made real sense were when one of them explained it to me—broke it down, gave it color, made it feel like something alive. And now they're both gone.
And I'm left to understand it alone.
The love I had for them wasn't romantic. It wasn't in any way that would make sense on paper. It was something else. Something quieter, deeper. The kind of love that slips between conversations and memories. That lingers in the smell of old pages, in the silence after laughter, in the books they once touched. A soul-love. The kind Rumi wrote about when he spoke of Shams.
And just like Shams, they both vanished.
I met them years apart. Loved them differently. Lost them the same.
They didn't walk in—they crashed through. Changed everything I thought I knew. And then, just like that, they were gone. No goodbyes. No slow fade. Just... gone.
Rumi turned his grief into verses that moved the world. I just turned mine inward and got stuck. Maybe that's why I lost them. Maybe I loved them too much. Or maybe I held on too tightly to what they represented.
That's the embarrassing part. That's why I read Rumi now. Not because I suddenly understand him—but because when I hold his words, I feel closer to them. It's my way of keeping a piece of them alive. My quiet attempt to build a bridge to the unreachable.
So yes, I love Rumi.
But only because I loved them first.
And they loved him.
That was enough.
Now, I read to remember.
To stay close to something that once felt holy.
To hold on to what's left—
Even when they're gone.
Reminds me of a quote of Rumi one of my friends quoted a lot:
"The wound is the place where the Light enters you."
— Rumi