He called today.
Unexpected -- like a bruise you forgot was there
until someone pressed on it.
He was drunk. Of course he was.
Because sober men don’t resurrect what they’ve already buried.
The moment I heard his voice, my breath forgot how to behave.
Memories rushed in --
late nights talking about nothing, and somehow learning everything.
Silence that didn’t ask to be filled.
Flirting that felt like home.
Jokes that landed softly.
Teasing that trusted me to stay.
Peace.
God, the peace.
Then he spoke. Not of me -- but of *her*.
Three hours. That used to be ours.
Our sacred, stolen time.
Now it sounded borrowed, because every minute carried her name.
Her hair -- so soft even silkworms would envy their own silk.
Her eyes -- so bright the moon would rather hide
than lose a comparison it couldn’t win.
He spoke of yearning. Of years spent waiting.
And all I could think was -- I am not her.
So I listened. What else could I do?
My heart shattered and stitched itself back together when he finally asked,
“How are you?”
I tried to answer. I really did.
But then -- her again.
And my words collapsed into silence.
Months of talking. So many feelings.
Reduced to echoes, because he wasn’t really speaking to me.
He was speaking *through* me. Imagining her.
He said when he closed his eyes, she was the only face he saw.
When he woke, when he slept -- she haunted everything in between.
And I listened.
Because love doesn’t always come with choices.
It wasn’t his fault.
We were mirrors, really -- both loving someone
we could never have.
We laughed. We teased. I cried.
He said he couldn’t handle my tears.
But I knew -- they weren’t meant for him.
And he wasn’t reacting to me.
He cared. I know he did.
Just… not in the way I needed.
Maybe never for me at all.
There’s a thin line between love and hate, they say.
Thinner between hate and obsession.
He crossed neither.
He built an altar and knelt so long he forgot what standing felt like.
I never tried to compete. How could I?
So I smiled through the breaking,
let my tears fall quietly, and listened.
He asked again, “How are you?”
I said I was fine.
He laughed -- said he wanted the longer answer.
It had always been our ritual.
So I gave it to him. Smiling, while my heart splintered,
already knowing she’d return to the conversation.
What else could I do?
It was his *one last call* to me.
--swaraxk, 04/02/2026
Theme : Love