He once wrote my initials—
S.C.—
on the back of his hand
in red ink.

Bold.
Unashamed.
A quiet rebellion
against forgetting.

I wonder if the ink
sank into his skin,
leaving a mark
the world couldn't see—
but I could feel.

Or maybe it faded,
washed away with the next rinse,
like so many promises
made in passing.

Still, sometimes I wonder—
when he looks at his hands,
does he remember me?
Or did that ink
only ever stain paper hearts
like mine?

You left me there—
like a story you never finished.
A book on a shelf,
gathering dust,
forgotten with time.

Your interest faded,
and the pages grew cold.
But I stayed open,
waiting to be held again.

Still, I wait—
hoping for that moment
your eyes land on me again,
like they used to.
Hoping you’ll turn back,
give us one more read.

I want to remind you
of the magic we once had—
the rhythm, the pull,
the way we made sense
between the lines.

So I sit here, quiet,
not moving,
but full of everything
we ever were.

Still hoping—
you’ll remember
what it felt like
to hold me close
and never want to put me down.

I keep a library of lovers—
stories from my past,
each one a chapter that didn’t last.
I placed them on the shelves
like well-worn books,
but lately, I wonder—
were they just my faults
bound in pretty covers?

There was one love that had it all—
the fairytale,
the heartbreak,
the lesson.

Yes, it felt like a fairytale once—
so pure,
so full of light.
But looking back,
maybe it was just my young heart
coloring everything golden.

And yes,
it ended like a tragedy.
I reread it over and over,
trying to make sense of the pain.
But now I see—
it was my own hands
that folded the corners,
that tore the pages.

It became a lesson,
though I didn’t know it then.
I held on too long,
afraid to let go—
clinging not to love,
but to fear.

Now, I stand in this quiet library,
browsing through memories
with a bittersweet gaze.
Were they lovers,
or reflections of who I was,
what I needed to learn?

Still, I won’t close the shelves.
I won’t burn the books.
They’re part of me—
each one a mile on the road
that led me here.

Someday, I’ll write a new chapter—
not a fairytale,
but something real.
And when I do,
it’ll be the one
that finally stays open.

In the echoes of your silence,
I found a universe—
full of the words you never said,
the tears you never cried,
and the longing that hung heavy in the air.

I called out to you,
my voice cracking with hope,
but all that returned
were desperate echoes
lost in the space between us.

You stayed distant—
unmoved,
untouched by the storm
that raged inside me.

We were tangled—
in missed chances,
in words that came too late,
in love that never quite found its way.

I gave you everything,
poured it out like a river that couldn’t stop,
but you stood still.
Unaffected.
Unwilling.

In the end,
it wasn’t the things we said
that broke us.
It was the silence—
so loud,
so final.

Now we’re here,
still tethered by hearts too scared to speak,
stranded in the quiet,
held apart by all the things
we never found the courage to say.

Oh, the guilt—
it sits heavy in my chest.
I carry it every day.
Do you?
Or did you slip away
untouched
by the wreckage you left behind?

I’ll never know.
You hide your heart
like a locked door.
But I remember how you came
not with kindness,
but with something to prove—
a twisted belief
that girls like me,
soft-spoken,
faithful,
could be broken
if pushed just right.

But don’t you see?
It was never about me failing.
It was you—
your hands,
your choices,
your violence.

I was whole.
I was safe.
Until you burned through
what I was.

You called it a test.
I call it a wound.
You called it truth.
I call it cruelty.

You proved your point,
if that’s what you wanted.
But what did it cost?
A piece of me I’ll never get back.
A soul scarred by what you called proof.

Mi Cielo—my heaven above.
The words were foreign,
but the feeling was always home.
That’s what I called him—
softly, lovingly—
even when our languages
couldn’t quite hold each other.

But I held onto what mattered:
the meaning.
Because in my heart,
he was never a stranger.
He was part of me,
the part I couldn’t let go of,
even when nothing made sense.

I never imagined he’d drift—
become someone I couldn’t reach.
He was mine in the only way that mattered,
a light I thought would never dim.

I didn’t want him to feel far,
didn’t want silence
to be the loudest thing between us.
I just wanted closeness—
always.
I wanted forever.

Things are different now.
But still, in the quiet parts of me,
you’ll always be Mi Cielo—
my heaven,
my heart.

In the quiet of the night, I felt it—
his pain, pressing heavy on my chest.
He didn’t say a word, but it hung between us,
thick in the air like unshed tears.

I was supposed to be his joy,
his first love, the light in his days.
But my words—careless, sharp—
cut him where I couldn’t see.
And I didn’t know, not really,
how much I’d hurt him
until I felt it echo inside me.

A silent ache—mine and his—
wrapped around my ribs like regret.
That night, I finally saw it:
what love can carry,
and how easily we break the things we hold dear.

Morning brought clarity,
gentle and cruel all at once.
And as the light crept in,
I saw my mistake not as a moment,
but a wound that lingered.

He was my first love,
the one who held my heart so gently.
And now, all I could do was watch
as he carried the weight I gave him.

If I could go back, I would—
unsay, undo, unhurt.
But love doesn’t always forgive
just because you finally understand.
And I’m left with this truth:
that love is fragile,
and words, once spoken,
can last far longer than we ever mean them to.