things that vanish when you look too closely 

i used to think every knock on the door was a beginning.
somewhere along the line, i learned to open it for anyone who smiled the right way.
strangers with warm hands and loud laughter.
names that felt soft on the tongue but never stayed long enough to become part of the house.
i let them in.
i let them walk through the rooms of me, track mud across the floors, rearrange the furniture,
whisper promises into corners they never intended to return to.
i mistook presence for intention.

it took years of half-finished conversations and laughter that died before reaching the eyes
for me to understand—
some people are only made for entrances.
some voices are only echoes dressed up as company.

there’s a certain silence that comes after a person leaves.
it doesn’t shout.
it just settles.
it wraps around you like the memory of a song you used to love,
but now it only plays in static.
and you wonder if it was ever music at all.

what i learned, eventually,
is that not all connections are meant to be held with both hands.
some are smoke.
some are reflections in water.
beautiful, yes—but try to touch them, and they scatter.

shallow waters shine because the sun reaches them easily.
but deep waters, the ones that hold weight and memory and meaning,
take time.
they ask for patience.
they ask for stillness.

and maybe that’s what i’ve become—still.
not stagnant, but steady.
i no longer chase what leaves no shadow.
i no longer call back to footsteps that never planned to stay.

because if there’s one thing i know now, it’s this:
i would rather sit alone in silence that honors me
than dance in noise that forgets i’m there.