We are two voices in the night,
threading hours together like beads on a fragile string.
He calls, and I answer -always.
The world falls away, and it is just us:
words, laughter, silences that hum like unspoken prayers.
But between his sentences, she lingers.
A shadow he does not summon,
but one that follows him anyway.
She is his almost, his ache,
though she already belongs to someone else.
And I am the one who stays.
He says he will try,
he says he wants to move on,
but every day he sees her,
I know how hard it is to unlearn a heartbeat.
And yet --
he tells me he can't bear to watch me hurt, that if I ever whisper *enough*,
he will walk away,
though he knows I never will.
So I stand here in the quiet space between:
Not the girl he dreams of,
but the girl who dreams of him.
Not the one his eyes chase in daylight,
but the one his voice seeks in the dark.
And I wonder-
Is love measured in longing?
In the ache of being near but not chosen?
Or is it measured in the hours we share,
in the warmth that is ours alone,
in the chance -fragile, trembling-
that one day, he might look up, and finally see me.
--swaraxk, 02/02/2026
Theme : Love