Sometimes I stand out here, under the big sky, and I think about you. You’re a ghost right now—a soft shimmer in the distance, a heartbeat I can’t quite catch. I don’t know your name, what you look like, or how your laugh sounds, but I feel you. It’s like you’re woven into the wind—just out of reach, but always brushing past me.

I guess that’s the thing about hope—it’s like a radio signal bouncing off the stratosphere. Sometimes it hits a place it wasn’t even aiming for, but it still finds a receiver. Maybe you’re out there, tuning in to something you didn’t even know you were looking for. And here I am, broadcasting.

I imagine you with a quiet kind of strength—the kind that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. Maybe you drink your coffee black because you like the bitterness, or maybe you add so much cream it’s more dessert than drink. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that somewhere in the small hours, when the world’s asleep and I’m out here talking to the universe, I’m thinking of you.

I hope you’re out there somewhere, doing something that makes you feel alive—writing in a journal, learning a new dance step, singing too loud in your car. I hope you’ve got a soft spot for lost causes and you don’t mind how the wind tangles your hair.

One day, I’ll look up and see you. Maybe we’ll lock eyes over a dusty old record, or you’ll be sitting at the end of the bar, halfway through your second whiskey sour, and I’ll know. Just know. I’ll walk up and say something dumb—probably something about the weather or how crazy it is that people are still buying CDs. You’ll smile, maybe just a little, and I’ll know I found the girl I’ve been sending all these signals out to.

Until then, I’ll just keep broadcasting, hoping that someday the airwaves will bend in just the right way, and you’ll hear me.