on dissecting my best friend’s heart on a random wednesday, i realized how grief can wear cherry lipstick, dye her hair back to the color she had at thirteen, button up the prettiest blouse she owns—and still smile like it owes you nothing. she joked about the playlist that betrayed her, the socks still curled in his drawer, the toast that didn’t burn anymore—like heartbreak had rearranged the furniture in her house and left her no map. i laughed where she needed me to, timing my nods to the rhythm of her breaking, like keeping beat with a song she didn’t want to sing out loud. her hands trembled slightly, stirring her coffee with more focus than necessary—like it was the only thing left that didn’t expect anything from her. she didn’t cry—just spoke in soft ruins. toothbrush. sock drawer. half-played playlists. i wanted to hold her hand but felt like a fraud, my own fingers useless scaffolding. her words were loose threads pulled from old sheets, unraveling her in quiet, steady inches. and in that hour of sunlight and cinnamon air, i realized some heartbreaks don’t shatter you—they just gently fold you inward, until you forget how to unfold. and when she looked out the window, eyes skimming the world like it was something she used to belong to, i wanted to ask if she’d ever really come back, or if she had already offered the softest parts of herself to someone who stopped knowing what to do with them. and as she looked away, laughing at something no longer funny, i’ve realised that the quietest goodbyes come dressed as routine.
- 30 july'25, on dissecting my best friend's heart on a random wednesday
