i heard your voice change around them not louder just sharper at the edges as if every sentence had learned how to stand up straight
they knew things without reaching for them quotes arriving whole in the mouth meanings unfolding as if the page had been waiting for their hand
you watched them the way people watch a fire not for warmth exactly for the shape of it for what it might become if left alone
after that i could not stop noticing what i lacked
a book in my lap turned heavy and stubborn its lines sliding off me as if i were made of wet paper i misread signs forgot names answered too late laughed once and heard how small it sounded
you kept saying their name in the middle of ordinary talk like it had found a way into every room like there was always something in them you had not finished admiring
i began to shrink around that fact eating less because hunger felt too visible sleeping badly because sleep made mornings arrive unchanged washing a cup for too long just to have something to do with my hands
the mirror was unkind in simple ways a face going pale at the mouth shoulders pulled inward eyes that looked like they had spent the night apologizing
the world kept offering itself anyway fruit in a bowl rainwater in the gutter music from a car at the curb and i moved through it as if i were borrowing the air
you did not have to leave for me to feel abandoned you only had to keep turning toward the person who seemed to carry a brighter key while i stood beside you with the wrong lock in my chest
by evening the kitchen had gone quiet enough to hear the knife when it shifted in the drawer quiet enough to hear my own pulse stumble quiet enough to make the room feel less like shelter than witness
and in that witness i stood very still with the sink full of cold water the cabinet open the dark beginning to collect in the corners where no one looked too long
i stopped reaching for the light i stopped waiting for the feeling to pass i stood there in the silence listening to how easy it’d be to finally make the aching stop
—lyra moon (the spine of the book broke, just like mine) october 19, 2026