i can still feel your kaleidoscopic eyes on me. after all, it was me who made the mistake of meeting them. under the dining table lights, those golden freckles, framed by lashes that looked too perfect to be real, undressing me. four walls, a mattress, and us eating out of takeout boxes. sharing songs, laughing at things that only made sense to us. every time i pass that park, nostalgia hits me hard. where are you now though? sometimes i wonder if you ever think of me. not th

there comes a point when you stop waiting for something to return. not out of anger, not even out of acceptance, but out of quiet exhaustion. you just get tired of standing at the same emotional doorway, hoping a familiar knock will sound again. we grow up believing every ending deserves closure. that people who leave will one day circle back with apologies and explanations neat enough to fold away the ache. but the truth is, some stories end mid sentence, and that’s all they

You, with your russet hair, curls of glistening bronze fluttering in the Maldivian wind. I can still see them, the way they framed your...