I trace the outlines of what we were—

  apparitions of laughter and admiration

  bleeding through memory's seams.

  You went from someone I cherished

  to someone I barely recognize.

  You said healing wasn't linear,

  but some wounds curve back

  into familiar shapes,

  just sharp enough to remember

  how your eyes used to meet mine

  like you meant to stay.

  Now they hold doors

  I no longer know how to knock on.

  I carry questions like coins

  rubbed smooth from overuse,

  tossing them toward silence

  hoping for answers that imitate.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  But no one talks about

  what comes after the falling apart—

  how even when I'm fine,

  I'm not really fine at all.

  If I speak,

  do I risk breaking

  what little still holds us together?

  If I stay silent,

  do I vanish entirely

  into the space between

  who we were and who we've become?

  For now, I walk beside absence,

  where your presence once bloomed.

  Some gardens don't grow back—

  no matter how much you water them

  with memories of better days

  or tears of recognition

  for all the parts of us

  that died so quietly.

  And now I can't tell

  if I'm happy or I'm sad

  in this strange aftermath

  no one prepared me for.