where his laughter still curls in the corners of her mind,
soft and deceiving.
She runs her fingers through memories,
like brushing pages of a story
she’s too afraid to finish.
He left; but the scent of him lingers in the air
of her quiet nights.His touch, a ghost on her skin
she cannot wash away.
She tells the world she’s fine,
smiles stitched like fragile silk across her lips.
But love? No! Love is a language she’s afraid how to speak.
How do you trust touch
when his hands once promised forever
and let go?
How do you believe in hearts
when his pulse once matched hers
but walked away without a sound?
Others come close,
but her heart... afraid to bloom only to wither again.
She laughs at their words,
but her soul stays quiet,
locked in the room where his goodbye still echoes.
He took more than himself when he left:
he took the part of her
that believed love was safe.
Now, she keeps the memories,
even the broken ones
because letting them go
would mean admitting he never stayed,
never truly loved.
And maybe,
a small, fragile part of her
still waits...
for the impossible return, for a love
that won’t come back.
Until then, she’ll walk, half-alive,
wrapped in the softness of what was,
too tender, too torn
to begin again.
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