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I asked you if you were leaving.
Not because I didn’t know—
but because I couldn’t feel the ground
underneath the word goodbye.

You said,
“Yeah. Why?”
And I saw it in your eyes—
that same hesitation I carried
like a weight behind my ribs.

I asked again,
"When are you leaving?"
You gave me a month.
I asked again,
"When are you leaving leaving?"
Because dates are never what I want.
I want to know when the absence begins.
When the presence stops feeling like mine.

You said,
“December.”

I turned to walk away,
trying not to feel like a child
begging for a hand to hold
without ever reaching.

But then—
“Erm.”
A syllable caught like breath on a thread,
pulling me back.
I looked at you, waiting for the unravel.

You said,
“You still have two weeks with me.”

Like a gift.
Like a wound wrapped in ribbon.

Two weeks—
as if time ever listens when you ask it to slow down.
As if memory is gentle.
As if a goodbye with both hands
could ever be enough.

I smiled,
not with joy,
but with the ache of knowing
some people arrive
and leave
without ever needing to touch you
to leave fingerprints
all over who you are.

And I waved—
like a child
still believing
maybe, just maybe,
you’d stay
a little longer
if I looked back
long enough.
I miss you.
More than I want to admit.
But when I see you
when you’re actually there,
in front of me
my whole body just… shakes.

Not like butterflies.
Not some innocent, nervous crush.
It’s deeper.
It’s panic and grief twisted together
like my body doesn’t know
if it should run toward you
or escape.

I love you.
I don’t even want to,
but I do.
And it terrifies me.
Because you hurt me.
You know you did.

You shattered the version of me
that trusted you,
that saw the good in you
and held it like it was safe.

You broke me,
and I still want to feel close to you.
Isn’t that tragic?

My hands tremble when you walk by.
My chest tightens like a warning.
And still—
some part of me reaches for you,
like a flame that doesn’t know
it’s already been burned.

You do know.
You have to.
You looked me in the eye
when you let go.

I pretend not to see you now.
Pretend I don’t still feel everything.
Because it's easier
than looking at the person
who left me bleeding
and walked away.

And the worst part?
You still live in me.
In the shake of my hands.
In the silence I carry.
In the way I look for you,
even when I beg myself not to.

So yeah…
I miss you.
But I’m scared of you now.
And I don’t know
what haunts me more
what you did to me,
or the fact
that I still wish you’d hold me.
You were just my physics teacher.
But you weren’t just anything.

Tall. Hunched back.
Nerdy in the most beautiful way —
Soft-spoken, kind, eyes that listened.
The type of man I didn’t know I’d fall for
until I did. Quietly. Completely.

I sat there watching you teach about gravity
while feeling it pull inside me.
How could something so invisible
feel so undeniable?

We never touched.
Never flirted.
You never crossed a line —
but my heart did.
Over and over again.

I cared.
More than a student probably should.
Not because I was foolish,
but because you made me feel
safe.
Seen.
Understood.

And maybe I wasn't supposed to.
Maybe I’m not supposed to still.

But our souls —
God, our souls
feel like they brushed shoulders
in a hallway the world can’t see.

In another life,
you’d have asked me how my day was
outside of a lesson plan.
I’d have told you about my poems
and you’d smile like it meant something.
Like I meant something.

But in this one…
You were the teacher.
I was the student.
And everything I felt
stayed locked behind my ribs.

Still, you were
everything I dreamed of in a man.
Everything I didn’t know I deserved.

Even if nothing ever happened —
I still think
a part of me
will always love you
for being who you were
in a world that said you couldn’t be mine.
He wasn’t warm to the world,
but he was never cold to me.
In a room full of silence,
his gaze always seemed to land softly,
right where I happened to be.

He spoke to the class in formulas,
but echoed my words like music,
mirroring moments I barely remembered,
like my voice had folded into his.

There was something in the stillness—
a quiet force,
like gravity that pulls without asking.
He’d hold the room with sharp precision,
yet soften when I spoke,
like I’d tilted some balance in him
he wasn’t expecting.

When I laughed,
he’d almost smile.
When I fidgeted,
he’d shift too—
like we were in sync,
measurable in motion,
but unspoken in meaning.

I became the example in class.
He used my name like punctuation,
not too often,
but just enough
to feel like an equation
only we understood.

And maybe that’s enough.
Not everything real has to stay.
Not every mirror has to speak.

Sometimes, being noticed
by someone who never notices
anyone else—
is the kindest kind of ache.
Why do I always get hit
with a massive wave of I miss my ex
after a good day?

I always ask.
And then I wonder:

Do I miss you now
because I finally feel safe enough
to feel everything?

Or is it my subconscious
looking for someone
I once handed this joy to
like a secret?

Maybe it’s because I’m evolving
and some small, stubborn part of me
wishes you were evolving with me.
Wishes I was doing this
with you.

Or maybe it’s just that
our story never ended,
it just stopped.

And that ache I feel now
is the unfinished sentence
I keep trying to finish
without your voice.

But how do I reach you
without shattering what’s left of my pride?

And more than that
how do I stop this wave
from crashing over me
every time life finally feels bright again?

How do I stop missing you
not when I’m broken,
but when I’m whole?

Because it’s then
when I’m laughing,
thriving,
almost healed
that I miss you most.

And I hate that joy
still makes room for your ghost.
Not just someone to hold my hand,
but to walk with me through marbled halls—
past paintings that whisper centuries,
beneath chandeliers humming old opera songs.

To sit beside me in velvet-red seats,
when the curtains rise on tragedy and jazz.
Who claps when the classical music swells to its peak
even if he doesn’t understand the raga,
just because I’m moved.

To take Polaroids of me mid-laugh,
to frame the soft, un-posed pieces
I often forget I have.
To bring me lilies and baby’s breath,
not because it’s Valentine’s,
but because he listened when I said,
“These are my favourites.”

To come to church,
not for the sermon,
but for me.
To sit in the quiet stained-glass stillness,
not believing the same things,
but believing in us.

To be patient when I unspool,
when my feelings tangle like old film reels.
To hike with me, sleep under stars,
smell like firewood and freedom.

To cook, even messily—
pasta overdone, toast a little burnt,
but with a smile made of effort.

To plant something and keep it alive.
To find joy in roots and green things.

To let vinyls fill our evenings,
crackling jazz and soft acoustics,
swaying barefoot in the kitchen.

To read my poems—really read them—
not just skim the metaphors,
but feel the ache beneath each line.
To hum the songs I play on my guitar,
even off-key,
just to harmonise with my heart.

To let me talk about emperors and wars,
ancient cities and revolutions,
and not just nod—
but ask,
“But why did that matter?”
So I can light up with the answer.

This is the kind of love I want.
Not flashy, not loud.
But curious.
Present.
Rooted like a garden,
melodic like jazz,
and sacred like Sunday.
he was like a candle.
not a bonfire,
not something wild and uncontrollable—
just…
this small, steady glow
that made everything feel warmer
for a little while.

he showed up
with a smile that felt like summer
and hands that didn’t know how to stay.
but god, when he was here
he lit me up.

i didn’t even know how dark it was
until he walked in
and made it feel like morning.

He burnt fast.
hot.
quick.
blinding.
and before I could even cup my hands
to protect him from the wind,
He was gone.

no smoke.
no goodbye.
just the cold.

what do you do
with melted wax
and a memory?

i still replay the way he held me
like it was temporary.
like he already knew
He’d have to leave.

and maybe i always knew it too.
maybe some part of me
was already preparing
for the goodbye
the second he said hello.

He was a candle.
and i
i was the room
that stayed warm
long after he was gone.
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