Skip to main content

This part carries a truth I tried not to see, in the world of this story. If you’ve ever loved in borrowed time, maybe you’ll understand. Read if your heart feels like it, skip if it doesn’t. Thank you for keeping me company in these words. ******************************* Part 5 There was once a world where sunsets last a little longer, a world that we have both left behind, a world that was born from our collided souls. /// Our days passed among the flowers and the trees; in the quiet world we had made for ourselves. I remembered the incident on the bench, the other presence beside him, but I let it settle in the background, a shadow I refused to name. We moved quietly through our world, letting mornings stretch with the soft hum of the stream and the gentle sway of the white flowers. Afternoons carried the warmth of sunlight brushing through the trees, and the wind teased its fingers through our hair as we wandered among petals and roots. Evenings were golden, delicate, and almost sacred, filled with laughter and small touches that made the world feel tender and alive. He would sometimes pause, his eyes lingering on me as though trying to memorize every line of my face, every curl of hair, every subtle gesture. I returned the gaze with equal care, holding close the fleeting moments, pretending the past had no claim on the present. In the garden, there were no walls to hide secrets, but I carried mine like a leaf folded in my hand. I let the memory of what I had seen remain tucked at the edge of my mind, pretending that the laughter and the gentle brushing of our fingers through the petals were ours entirely to keep. Evenings came with a softness that we clung to, silent or speaking, laughing or just breathing together. Almost normal. Almost happy. And in those days, I allowed myself to believe that perhaps the garden could hold us like this forever. The mornings began with the usual light spilling across the garden, but one morning, he was not there. The white flowers swayed faintly as if noticing my pause, the wind teasing through the trees, but he did not come. I returned again the next day, lingering by the stream, tracing the paths we had walked a thousand times, but he was nowhere. The garden held its silence, patient and unyielding, and slowly a cold weight began to settle in my chest. I kept returning for days, each time hoping he would appear from between the trees, smiling that soft, familiar smile. The garden waited, but he did not return. And then it struck me with a quiet certainty that left my hands trembling: he was really gone. Something drew me toward the mansion at last, a force I could not name. The air was still, and the door opened without resistance. Inside, the gallery awaited me, silent and expectant. Walls lined with paintings and photographs captured moments that had always felt ours, yet now revealed a truth I could not have imagined. Among them were newer paintings, ones that made my chest constrict with a strange, aching recognition. A pair bound in wedding colors. The truth settled in the quiet corners of the mansion. His fate had never been his alone. Our borrowed days in the garden had been a fleeting reprieve, a fragile happiness against the tide of inevitability. I stepped back into the garden, the flowers bending as if to watch me, the stream murmuring softly. The air pressed against me, heavy with remembrance and absence. Somewhere deep inside, I understood that nothing, not even love, could change what was already written. And so I remained in the garden, tracing the paths we had walked, listening to the wind and the faint whispers of petals, knowing that our time together had ended, yet feeling somewhere beyond sight and sound that his story and mine was far from over. End of Part 5 ©️M. | August 2025 Part 4 https://ift.tt/FG2dCAm


from Chocolate & Thoughts https://ift.tt/Q0RmX2s
via IFTTT

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Missing

Love is like a river of tears that will flow whenever you're not here There are days when I see nothing but rain There are days when I just feel so much pain "I miss you" somehow flies right off my lips and so once again I'm left wishing for you to be here There are days when I just miss you so much there are days when I just long for your touch "I love you" somehow flies right off my lips  and so once again I'm left crying for you....

Day 7/366

The year just started but somehow it didn't feel like some new beginning for me. I only felt the continuation as if this year is just another task that I had not managed to complete before the weekend started and to be resumed again on Monday. But don't get me wrong for I don't think it's all bad. Continuation can be good for it’s a sign that we didn't quit, we simply take our time to pause and breathe. Still, I do hope that we will take care of ourselves more this year, love more especially to ourselves, and believe that we also deserved every good things we always wish for others. I never listed any great resolutions for myself for years, but I hope I will continue to be myself, to be kind to others, continue to work hard to build a better life and perhaps grasp a little courage to pursue my dreams. And just a little reminder to myself (and maybe to you too), sometimes, the simple words as "I'm here for you" from someone, would feel like a million hu...

The story continues, in the spaces between what is and what was. Read if it calls to you, skip if not. Thank you for keeping me company. ************************* Part 6 As my eyes lulled to sleep, I heard the night sing a wordless song of farewell to the lost love and to the world that I left behind, a strange realm that exists outside of time, where you and I forever lived under the aligned sun and moon, in the sky adorned with dancing stars. /// Mornings came differently now. The light was sharper, colder, as if reminding me that the world I had known in the garden belonged only to memory. I tried to hold onto it, but life pressed in with its routines, its obligations, and its quiet insistence that I move forward. In my darkest hours, I wished for an ending, my own ending, and for the garden to remain sealed in its realm, forever beyond my reach. I moved to a new city, rented a small apartment, and began to write. Words poured out of me like wind through white clouds, pages filled with longing, fragments of laughter, and sunlight. Friends and my mother checked in often, their concern gentle and persistent. They seemed to wonder what had truly happened, why I would sometimes grow distant in the middle of a conversation, as though some part of me had drifted elsewhere. They never knew of the nights I screamed and cried in my sleep, haunted by what I had lost. I could only smile, brush off their questions, and carry on as if nothing had broken inside me. Still, no matter where I went, no matter how far I wandered, I remembered the garden. I remembered the way the wind played with his hair, the quiet sway of the flowers, the golden evening light that had made everything feel almost sacred. Sometimes, I wondered if it had all been real, or if it was a dream that clung too stubbornly to me to let go. When I could no longer hold the longing, I returned. The city felt distant, the world around me muted, as I passed through the familiar gate. The garden stretched before me, pale and quiet, waiting as if it had always known I would come again. I walked slowly among the flowers, my fingers brushing their petals, my heart aching with the sadness that this could be the last time I would see it, and part of me wished it would disappear to end the pain. Inside the mansion, the gallery revealed itself once more. There, among the familiar paintings and photographs, I found new images of him and her, smiling in scenes that could never belong to me, moments of happiness that had unfolded without me. Each frame whispered the truth I had tried so long to resist. A life that had moved on without me. I stepped back toward the gate. With a slow, deliberate motion, I closed it behind me. When I looked back, the garden had vanished, folded into memory as though it had never been there. And yet, I felt it in the quiet pulse of my chest, in the words I would write, in the night that sang its endless song. The garden was gone, but our story, in some fragile and unbroken way, lived on within me. I turned away from where the garden had been, the wind brushing softly against my face, carrying the faintest memory of petals and sunlight. Life waited beyond the mansion, in the city, in the pages I wrote, in the quiet conversations of friends and my mother who still worried for me. And yet, sometimes at night, when the world grows still and the stars align just so, I feel the pulse of that other place. A world outside of time, a world where he and I had once existed, suspended between sun and moon. I do not know if I will return, or if that world will ever open its gates to me again. But I know this. The story we shared is not finished. Somewhere, in the threads of memory, in the quiet breath of the night, it waits. And I wait with it, knowing that some endings are only the beginning of another chapter. End of Part 6 ©️ M. | September 2025 Part 5 https://ift.tt/fGBwXpQ

from Chocolate & Thoughts https://ift.tt/a8uC2Pg via IFTTT