It began like all beautiful tragedies do, with a glance. There was too much silence between heartbeats, and a feeling I couldn’t name until it was far too late. So I gather what I can from the wreckage, a memory, a touch, a trace of your voice, and carry it softly, like a song that never ends, echoing through the hollows of me. And when the nights grow long and silent, I feel you there, not as comfort, but as absence wearing the shape of love. M. | June 2025
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