The curtain moved.
Not with wind—
but with something
warm,
like breath held
then let go.

Her anklet scraped
the floor tile
only once.

Your tea
steeped too long
on the windowsill.

The calendar page
was blank.

Her scarf stayed
where she dropped it—
on the chair’s back,
faint with
lemon shampoo.

And you—
you didn’t touch it.
Not then.

But later,
you folded it.
Twice.

As if
that meant
you hadn’t looked.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.

The matchbox
was hers—
bright red
with a tiger on it,
its head tilted
like it knew the ending.

One match left.
He kept it
in the drawer
beside loose buttons,
an eye drop bottle
half full,
a packet of salt
from a meal
they never finished.

He never lit it.

Not when
the bulb blew
above the stove.
Not when
monsoon took the power
three nights straight.

He’d reach—
then pause.
Then close the drawer
softly.

Until
the day
her number stopped ringing.

He struck it.

Once.

It flared—
brief, bright,
then gone.

The drawer
still smells
like her.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.

I lay there,
Face pressed into a pillow
Wet with every reason to scream.

“What did I do?”
“What did I do?”
Like a scratched record stuck
On guilt and grief and ******* helplessness.

She said she didn’t want it.
So why did she go through with it?
Why leave me behind
When I was already ruined?

I loved her.
I still do.
I saw us building things—
A life with messy mornings
And laughter so loud it cracked the ceiling.

But she’s married now.
She’s gone.

And I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still pretending it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.

Now I don’t know what to do anymo'.
I am deep below my own trench,
and still falling into the deep, dark below.

Will I ever hit the bottom?
The point where there’s no further down—
only up? I know I feel like a clown.

But still,

No more confusion.
No more sadness.
Only hope and happiness, I guess.
Peace of mind.
With all the past behind.

I feel lost. I don't feel like me.
I feel like I’m falling.
I feel empty inside me.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.

Reality is cruel.
Fate is cruel.
You were cruel.
And me—
I’m no better.

Maybe I’m just…
Empty.

Not even lonely.
Just hollow. Void. Unmoving.
Unreal.

And now— I’m alone.
So alone.

I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know who I am.
I am clueless. I am lost.

"Help me."
"Miss me."
"Love me."
"And Tell me—why?"

Maybe one day—
I’ll begin to fill myself.
Because in the end,
no one else will do it.
No one else ever would.

But for now…
I’m just—
empty.

— The End —

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.