He came to me in a vision, like a slow falling golden afternoon.

Not real, only in some dream where I saw him standing in a dissolving sunset. Everything around him was bathed in warmth; not the ostentatious kind of gold, but the quiet one that lingers on your fingertips when the sun is about to fade.

I have never met him. Yet every time I think of gentleness, his face returns, as if my memory has known him from another life.

He exists on the boundary between reality and imagination. He is close enough for me to believe in that light, yet distant enough for me never to reach it.

I used to think that those who carry light could never understand my darkness. But he was different, or perhaps I wanted to believe he was. In the world I imagine, he never tries to chase the dark away. He simply stands there, quietly, close enough for his light to blend into my sadness, softening it like honey stirred into bitter tea.

I imagine he doesn’t speak much. But in every gesture, there’s something that makes people believe kindness is not a form of weakness.

That he can endure the suspicious glances, the whispers, the cruel misunderstandings, and still choose to live gently. Not because he fears pain, but because he knws a golden heart will bleed if it ever stops being kind.

People may love him for the light he casts on the screen, but I love the way he exists in my imagination, in those quiet moments between two breaths.

Where I can hear a quiet “it’s okay,” so small only I can hear it, yet enough to save me through a sunless day.

I call him Yellow Heart, not because he is perfect, but because, in my memory, there is a scar right in the middle of his chest, where someone once threw a stone at his heart.

He carries it everywhere, a proof that true gold does not fear being scratched.

When I imagine him smiling, the world doesn’t become more beautiful. It simply becomes more gentle.