The air hums with unspoken weight, a silence pressing between us like fog. Hands are not intertwined—they hover where warmth once lived, where fingertips traced quiet promises. The distance isn’t measured in steps but in flickering gazes, in breaths that hesitate before exhaling my name. Words are not said, yet they linger between our ribs, aching to be freed.
Outside, the wind stirs, but inside, we remain still—two figures suspended in the moment before departure. Hearts that won’t break, only harden, only learn to carry love like an echo instead of a presence. And yet, I wonder: is love only real if it leaves something shattered behind?