A Storm in Glass

Strangely, I feel lonelier now than before you stepped into my life. You arrived like spring after a bankrupt winter—warmth blooming where I’d forgotten colour could grow—and I tried to meet you gently, pouring my heart in careful spoonfuls so I wouldn’t drown the quiet places you kept for yourself. Loving you was sunlight cupped in bare hands, beautiful and blistering; when you drifted, I made myself smaller, hoping you’d stay. We built a fragile house inside each other, wallpapered with borrowed hope, and now that you’re gone, I’m a storm sealed in glass—violent, electric, aching to be witnessed. The thunder rolls in my chest, the rain stings behind my eyes, but no one sees it. No one hears it. I am fury and longing, pressure and silence, swirling in a jar on a shelf, labelled fine. And the scariest part isn’t that you left; it’s that one day you might forget. That my name will become a language you once spoke fluently and then abandoned, like an old poem you never bothered to finish. Still, I guard the ember of us—a quiet, flickering thing I feed with skipped songs, with words I never sent. Because maybe a love like this only strikes once. Maybe not you'‘d say. And I gave it all to you. I don’t know if your door is still cracked open. I won’t knock. I won’t plead. But it shatters something inside me to think I might’ve been easy to set down when things grew heavy. If you’d asked me to wait, I would have. If you’d told me to walk, I might have spared myself this endless orbit of ache. Instead, I linger in the in-between—wondering if I was brave or just naïve to empty myself into hands that weren’t ready. But no matter how much time passes, I can’t unremember you. And part of me hopes,you can’t unremember me either.