Make It Stop

[heartbreakroundtwo]

I’ve learned not to touch the flame because it burns; no matter how beautiful and alluring.

[heartbreakroundtwo]

"You okay?" I ask softly, moving closer, my hand gently placed on the back of your upper arm.

You lean into me for a fraction of a second, letting your weight settle; a rare admission of gravity, before you bounce back. You point a lobster-claw hand at a single, surviving sprinkle on the counter.

"I’m spectacular," you chirp, trying to smile. Your voice has that slight, gravelly edge it gets when the nerves are firing. "Did you know that if you stare at a neon light long enough, you can actually taste the color blue?"

You’re ridiculous... You're hurting. You’re a mess of pain and missing ingredients. And you are the toughest person I know.

I watch you catching as you go to get the milk, humming a song where you don't know the words, refusing to let the pain win. You are a kaleidoscope that’s been dropped; fractured, maybe, but still capable of making the most beautiful, nonsensical patterns I’ve ever seen.

I take the spatula from your hand and kiss your forehead. "Blue suits you," I whisper.

You grin, a bit of soot on your cheek. "I know, right? Now, help me eat these."

[heartbreakroundtwo]

I see the way your hand trembles as you reach for the spatula. It’s a tiny fracture in porcelain. Your jaw tightens; a brief, sharp flicker of shadow across your face, and I know the pain is back. It’s that invisible weight you still carry, the one you can't seem to beat.

Most people would be in bed though, curtains drawn, cursing the unfairness of a body that doesn't always cooperate. But not you. You just adjust your grip, take a shallow breath, and decide the charcoal cookies are actually "vintage-style brownies."

[heartbreakroundtwo]

The kitchen smells like burnt sugar and something vaguely metallic. I find you standing over a tray of "cookies" that look more like charcoal pucks, wearing a pair of mismatched oven mitts; one shaped like a lobster claw, the other a floral relic from mumma's house.

"I forgot the flour," you moan, tilting your head with a look of genuine disappointment. "I thought if I just doubled the sprinkles, they would make up for it. If you think about it, it should have worked," you joke.

You say it in a way that, for a second, I almost believe you. That’s the thing about your mind; it’s a bright, cluttered attic full of half-finished lyrics and a firm belief that whales are plotting an uprising. You aren't built for the mundane "logic" of the world, and honestly, my world is better for it.

[heartbreakroundtwo]

It’s never the grand gestures that catch me off guard. It's flowers on a random Wednesday, it's, "I got you this drink to try", it's "baby!".

It's the way your touch calms me down so effortlessly when I'm silently in need. The way you look in the harsh, unflattering light after an all nighter, squeezing your eyes open and closed, fighting it because you want to keep talking to me. It’s the specific, melodic "hmm" you make when you agree with a thought I haven't even finished voicing yet.

I remember the first time I realized that "home" wasn't a physical structure with a mailing address. We were standing in a crowded ice cream shop, arguing over which flavor of ice cream was superior, and you laughed; that genuine, head-back sound that cuts through the noise of the world. In that moment, the fluorescent lights felt like sunlight.

"I love you," I had thought then, the words heavy and sweet like honey coating my throat. I didn't say it. I just ordered one scoop of mint chocolate chip.

[a-iwrotethis4u]

Since you left,

my step has a little less bounce,

my smile a little less bright.

I turn the shower

a little hotter

to remember how it felt

when you were here.

I no longer spend time

cleaning hair from the blanket

where we used to lie.

Yet,

your voice,

it still echoes

through the hall.

The coffee

sitting on the counter

still reminds me of you.

Of your absence.

You may be gone−

but you’re still here

in everything I do.

[a-iwrotethis4u]

My mind still wanders to you. It’s not even a conscious decision anymore. It’s like breathing. A particular song comes on in the grocery store, and I remember us dancing, uninhibited, in the kitchen. A phrase someone uses, and it echoes a joke only we understood. Everywhere I turn, there’s a piece of you, a whisper of what we had.

Oh... how I miss you.

[a-iwrotethis4u]

The Softest Goodbye

The truth is, we both knew the limit; the quiet place where our roads stopped running side-by-side.

It was brave, I think, to let go with such tenderness, to wish each other the fullest light.

And I do.

I truly do wish you only the best, for all the happiness you deserve, for the ease we couldn't find together.

But sometimes, in the slow silence of the evening, I remember the perfect fit of our bodies and the easy way you knew my thoughts.

And that's when the longing catches. It is a soft ache, not a sharp wound— a secret whispered into the wind; that perhaps, somehow, the universe might still decide you belong here, with me.

I hope you find everything.

I just wish everything meant me.

[a-iwrotethis4u]

The Box of Us

We stood at the edge of the known, together, and saw the chasm open; not between us, but beneath the life we were trying to build. We didn't fall - we simply stepped away. It was a clean separation, a mutual acknowledgment that the structure could no longer hold us.

I remember your eyes, steady and unbearably sad, mirroring the heavy reluctance in mine. We chose growth over comfort, truth over unhealthy compromise.

It was inevitable. It was mature. It was, devastatingly, correct.

Yet, every logical argument I concoct shatters against the simple fact that I miss the weight of your head on my shoulder, laying down on the bus with no cares, nowhere to be.

I wish that the blueprint of our two lives had drawn a single, parallel path, free of these necessary detours. I wish that what was right for our individual journeys had also been right for our shared one.

I accept the truth, but the acceptance is a stone lodged in my chest. I hold the memory of our love like a perfect, small, closed box; so beautiful, so delicate, so finite. I just wish the box didn't have to exist.

[a-iwrotethis4u]

The air in the small apartment was already thin with finality. We hadn't argued; we had simply reached the last page of the book we wrote together, knowing it was the right place to stop.

We were sitting on the worn, grayish-blue blanket; the same one where we had attempted to watch a hundred movies and dreamed a thousand sprawling plans. The setting sun, a bruised orange, slanted through the blind, laying a single, golden stripe across the wooden floor.

I reached out, not urgently, but with the familiar comfort of muscle memory, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "No tears," I murmured, my voice rough, "we already did the hard work. We're making the right decision."

You leaned into my touch, breathing in the scent of my shirt - the distinct, warm spice that you knew.

"I know," you whispered back. "It just… it doesn't make it easier to say goodbye to my favorite person."

I shifted, pulling you closer, and we stayed there, suspended in that fading light. It wasn't passionate, but deep. It was the communion of two souls acknowledging a necessary pause.

"We’re not ending" I finally said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. "We're just stepping off the same train. We both have important, separate stations we need to get to now."

I took your hands, my grip firm and radiating the same steady faith that had always grounded you. "Listen to me: the world is round. If we keep moving, keep growing, and become exactly who we are supposed to be… we'll make it to the other side. Maybe a year, maybe ten, but we will have coffee again, and it will be easy, just like it always was."

A slow, somber smile curved your lips. It wasn't a guarantee, but an leap of faith in our connection. You nodded, storing that future warmth against the present cold.

You stood then, your silhouette framed by the last blaze of the sun. You didn't linger at the door; you just gave a slight, confident nod - a gesture of respect for the journey ahead.

And as the click of the latch echoed, I didn't break. I didn't rush to the window. I simply sat there in the silence, my back against the door, feeling the undeniable pain, but also the strangely comforting weight of our promise. It wasn't over. We were simply on the longest layover of our lives.

[heartbreakroundtwo]

The kitchen is quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator and the soft, dragging sound of your wool socks across the vinyl. It is that blue hour — too late for coffee, too early for sleep —where the world feels like it belongs only to the people inside this room.

You are standing by the counter, peeling an orange. You don’t look up when I enter, but your shoulder tilts toward me, a subconscious opening, an invitation. There is no grand declaration here, no cinematic swell of strings. There is only the sharp, bright scent of citrus filling the air and the way you hold out a single slice toward me without being asked.

I take it from your fingers, and for a second, our skin brushes—a small, tectonic shift.

We have said everything there is to say a thousand times over the years, yet this silence doesn't feel empty. It feels like a well-loved armchair. You lean back against the sink, watching the streetlights flicker on outside, and I realize that love isn't always the lightning bolt. Most days, it’s just the steady, reliable glow of the pilot light. It’s the way you know exactly how I take my tea, and the way I know which floorboard makes you wince when you step on it.

"You're staring," you say, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"I'm observing," I correct, stepping into your space.

You drop the orange peels into the bin and wipe your hands on your jeans, then reach out to adjust my collar—a gesture so practiced it’s almost prayer. We are just two people in a quiet kitchen, tethered by a million invisible threads of habit and history, standing still while the rest of the world rushes past the window.

"Observe this, then," you whisper, pulling me in.

And in the kiss, I taste salt, and sweetness, and home.

[heartbreakroundtwo]

We had a period placed where a comma belonged.

[heartbreakroundtwo]

I am still vibrating at the frequency of us, a tuning fork struck by a hand that has already left the room. I keep waiting for the resonance to stop, for the air to go still, but the echo of you is a stubborn thing; it refuses to believe that the music ended before the song was through.

[heartbreakroundtwo]

I don't look for you because I expect to find you.

I look for you because I've forgotten how to see anything else.

[heartbreakroundtwo]

The world has become a giant game of

connect the dots, where every point is a memory

and the picture is always your face,

sketched in the negative space

between the trees and the sky.

I am a lighthouse looking for a ship

that has already found a different harbor,

sweeping the dark,

over and over,

just in case the horizon

decides to give you back.

[thoughtkick]

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying ‘I will try again tomorrow’.”

— Mary Anne Radmacher

[heartbreakroundtwo]

If you called me tonight, I wouldn't ask for an explanation. I'd simply ask you to come over.