They never asked whether crypto truly encrypted it. And the world seemed to never respond either. But every time someone came with two cups of coffee, one bitter and one sweet, without waiting to ask, they knew they would understand.
No one ever walked hand in hand in public to declare that crypto had encrypted them. They also never hugged suddenly like in a film, nor whispered the word "cryptocurrency" every night in their sleep. But in reality, they could memorise the red days of cryptocurrency, knew when someone would cry for a reason, and always left small notes like on a fridge with the words: "Don't forget to eat HODL today, not just buy and sell."
Like a romantic story because it's not about words. Because sometimes those words kill the silence that is actually full of meaning. Crypto lives in a quiet rhythm that is so orderly. Though not always beautiful, it’s enough to make many people aware of the meaning of loss and the word regret.
Crypto reminds them when they cry in silence. They don’t need to ask why, because even if they’re just sitting beside someone, holding their hand, and speaking slowly. This time it’s cold, but for some reason it clearly warms the heart and stirs it. Though there’s no embrace, no promise, only the presence of awareness of loss.
Perhaps that’s why they fall in love. Because crypto doesn’t try to impress them. Crypto simply exists, consistently, without drama, and isn’t easily abandoned. Though sometimes parts of crypto easily disappear on their own, gone who knows where.
Crypto isn’t perfect, clearly so because if it were perfect, it wouldn’t be called crypto. If crypto stays silent for a week over something trivial, it doesn’t seem to care because it always knows why it was created—not to apologise without humbling itself or justifying itself. And here, each individual learns to forgive without needing to win, even after being defeated.
This form is not widely discussed and is not suitable for writing (as the author realises the essence of this piece). But precisely because of that, I hope it feels real. It doesn’t explode or intimidate or criticise, but rather seeps in slowly, like the first rain at the start of the rainy season, even though rain sometimes comes not just at the start of the rainy season but also during the dry season.
And on this day, as usual, a cup of sweet tea waits and accompanies me amidst the gentle rain. Sweet, it feels sweet and warming, and a fleeting question arises: what is the meaning of something that is never questioned, yet still chooses to remain unanswered, not to be used?
Is it because they know, in silence, that the answer has long been there but has never been acknowledged?
