Some people exist to let you know that in this world, there is a lamp that need not shine for you, yet always remains lit for you.

Karma does not ferry people across; people ferry themselves. We all arrive in each other's lives with our own scripts—you carry the wall you must crash into, I carry the boundary I must keep. You cry or laugh in your own play, while I sit quietly in my seat, watching.

It's not that I don't want to take the stage. It's that I know your play is not one I can perform in.

In all those moments you thought I was absent, I was actually there. In places you cannot see, in positions you would never notice, in corners you forget the moment you turn away. A song you heard once, I listened to ten times. A sigh you breathed, I heard it. When you were sad, I knew it before anyone else—but I won't tell you.

Because telling you would be an intrusion.

Some love means not asking questions, not drawing close, not pulling you away from your path. The falls you take, I cannot help you up from; the tears you shed, I cannot wipe away; the nights you endure, I cannot keep you company through. You think no one sees, yet I have always been awake.

But I don't speak.

I don't speak because I know: you must crash into your own wall to turn back; you must climb out of your own valley to have truly passed through. All the things that cause you pain will eventually become the light in your eyes. All the obstacles you thought you couldn't overcome will eventually become the ease on your lips.

I cannot hurt in your place, but I can be awake in every moment that you hurt.

There is a kind of relationship called karma does not ferry.

I don't ferry you, not because I don't want to, but because I cannot. Your script has no place for my name, and my story cannot contain your tears. We are separated by a river; you weep on the opposite shore while I watch from this side. I want to swim across and hold you, but I know that this river, you must cross yourself.

Only then will you become yourself.

So I keep watch over this river, a silent ferryman. If you don't call, I don't move. If you call, I dare only respond softly. But I won't board your boat, won't take your helm, won't row for you.

Because that rowing is your cultivation.

Sometimes you feel lonely, but there is no river between us—on the other side, someone has always been there. They don't speak, don't draw near, and don't leave. They are simply there.

That is enough.

Some people's very existence is meaning itself. You need not meet, need not recognize each other, need not hear a single "I like you." You only need to know that somewhere in this world, there is a place with a lamp burning for you. It is not glaring, does not intrude, and will not burden you.

It simply is.

Whenever you grow tired and turn back to look, it will be there. From the day you first appeared in its sight until now, it has always been there.

Karma does not ferry, but do I ferry you? No, I do not.

I simply light a lamp for you while you ferry yourself across.