She finally escaped another love that poisoned her,
this time, she had learned.
She plucked the flower at its prime—
froze its beauty
and left the rot behind,
a parasite she would not let fester.

She didn’t let it decay like before.

She laughed, feeling lighter,
no longer weighed down by the chains
she once mistook for bracelets,
adorning her wrists with rust.
Now, she could heal.

On the day the world celebrated love,
on the eve of a past she wanted to forget,
a voice clawed its way back in.
Memories crashed over her,
tears slipping between echoes of laughter.
The same friends who once listened to her joy
now listened to her grief—
what once felt like the best day of her life
had soured into something else.

Happiness was never hers for long.

She had been told love binds—
a thread between two souls,
a thread she had tried to sever so many times.
Her blade was dull,
each attempt only pulling it tighter,
tugging the past closer once more.

After silence stretched too long—
silence she had learned to love—
He came with apologies.
Too late.
Too late for all the sleepless nights,
the heavy weight of unlearning.

She wouldn’t let this moment slip away.
She found her voice, sharp and unrelenting,
reminding him of the wounds he left,
the scars are still etched into her skin.

He denied.
Twisted the truth to what he saw.
Tried to reshape her pain
into something palatable, forgivable.
But she remembered.
She carried the weight of it.
How could he not?

After everything she gave,
everything she thought was real,
it was never the same to him.

She listed all she had done,
and it didn’t even cover half of it.
He said he was grateful.

She wished gratitude could heal her.

It ended with quiet goodbyes,
a bitter farewell to the people they once were,
before they tangled themselves in thread.

She wishes she could ask how he was,
like she did back then.
But the thread tightens,
coiling around her throat,
a noose spun from something never meant to be,
choking on what should have never been,

“More than friends”