The screen glows,
and suddenly
I’m sitting beside a version of you
that only exists in memory.
Every scene feels borrowed
from a life I once imagined—
quiet streets, warm light,
a hand almost reaching mine.
It’s the almost that hurts.
The way the story tilts toward love
but never touches it,
like we were written
in the margins
and never in the script.
I don’t miss you
as a person moving through the world;
I miss the way my heart paused
whenever I pictured you in it.
When the credits rise,
the room goes dark—
but somehow you remain,
soft as an afterimage,
bright enough to ache,
close enough to stay,
yet forever just
out of reach.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 11:55 PM UTC
The screen glows,
and suddenly
I’m sitting beside a version of you
that only exists in memory.
Every scene feels borrowed
from a life I once imagined—
quiet streets, warm light,
a hand almost reaching mine.
It’s the almost that hurts.
The way the story tilts toward love
but never touches it,
like we were written
in the margins
and never in the script.
I don’t miss you
as a person moving through the world;
I miss the way my heart paused
whenever I pictured you in it.
When the credits rise,
the room goes dark—
but somehow you remain,
soft as an afterimage,
bright enough to ache,
close enough to stay,
yet forever just
out of reach.
