There were two travelers who once found each other at a crossroads.
Both carried broken maps, torn by storms and years of wandering,
and for a time, they walked together.
They promised, or so the man thought,
that if the roads grew too heavy,
they would pause, mend their maps,
and meet again when they were whole.
To him, it was not the end,
but a waiting place,
a promise left under the shade of a tree.
But to her, it was farewell.
Not cruel, not heartless,
simply the closing of a chapter she had already read through.
And so while he lingered beneath the tree,
believing she would return,
she had already turned toward another path,
her footsteps steady, her gaze fixed forward.
He did not hate her for this.
How could he?
They were both free to walk where they wished.
But as he watched her figure fade into the distance,
he could not help but wonder,
how could love that once felt like fire in the veins
be set down so quickly, as if it were nothing more than ash?
He searched his chest for answers.
Perhaps he had carried their love as a seed,
waiting for spring,
while she had carried it as a bloom,
beautiful, fleeting, and already finished.
And so the man stayed by the tree,
haunted by the weight of a promise
he now realized was only his.