If time could bleed itself open,  
perhaps I would carve the same wound again.  
You were always closing doors,  
or worse—stacking bricks into a fortress so high  
even the sun could not crawl in.  

I could whisper a thousand apologies,  
kneel, break myself into shards,  
but you—  
you would remain the same,  
a monolith of ego, cold, untouched.  
I could have handed you the whole sky,  
peeled the stars from their silk,  
but what would it matter?  

Everything was always destined for ruin.  
No road we took would have changed the ending—  
you leaving, him leaving,  
the gods watching us from their cruel balconies,  
smirking at the wreckage.  
A curse, you said.  
Do you grieve that night still?  

I tried not to raise my voice,  
but even my silence rattled the walls.  
And you—  
you only hummed back,  
a song without a name.  
We never spoke the same language,  
we were never speaking to each other at all.  

Then why did we trade hearts,  
if only to smash them on the floor?  

You knew this would hurt—  
but how much longer?  
And suddenly, I wanted to tell you:  
I am sorry.  
That night, I was rubble, too.  

You will never know how it felt  
to split my love between you both,  
to stand in the middle of a burning field,  
watching the flames choose their own direction.  

You may think me cruel,  
a villain to your tragedy,  
but you twist the knife, too—  
as if your own hands are clean.  
If you need to make me the monster,  
then do it.  
I understand.  

I always tried to understand.  
But did you?  
Did you ever try?  
It doesn’t matter.  
The bloom has rotted.  
This story has already folded itself closed.  

You are gone,  
and so is he.  

Worse than death,  
you still breathe somewhere,  
watching, haunting.  
And I—  
I have nothing left to say.  

Sometimes,  
you tell me you miss me.  
And then what?  
You are still the same ghost,  
still wearing the same skin.  
Do I need to wonder anymore?  

Sometimes,  
I hate you.  
But hate dissolves when longing enters,  
so I swallow it down.  

Because everything is different now.  
Because I have already stepped forward.  
Because I no longer live where you left me.  

And neither do you.  

I regret nothing.  
Hate me if you must.  
Despise me if you will.  
And I—  
I will do the same.  

But there is a life behind this wreckage.  
Should we feel guilty?  
Or is it just me?  
I know you never could.  

You still want to live inside some weeping romance,  
some film where sorrow is beautiful.  
But my life is made of numbers now.  
I count time, I count money.  
Love is a ghost  
I no longer chase.  

Let it die where I once loved you.  
Let it rise again—  
or not.  
Let it wander its own path,  
let it stumble into someone else’s arms.  

Perhaps I will die old and alone,  
with no friends, no bloodline,  
just silence in the room where I last exhaled.  

Or perhaps I will die young.  

Look at me—  
the only thing I think of,  
besides survival,  
is the exit door.  

How different my distractions are now.  

You swallowed every last bite of love,  
chewed it to the bone,  
let it rot in your stomach.  
And I—  
I rot with it,  
my body breaking beneath its weight.  

I need time to heal.  
Call it karma—  
for all the ways I shattered you.  
Perhaps I was your nightmare.  

I look in the mirror,  
and I think you might be right.  

When does this end?  
Do I have to wait for one of us to stop breathing?  
Must it be death that writes the final chapter?  

No.  
No more death sewn with guilt.  

I have parents,  
and I love them.  
Their death should be the one to break me.  
And yet, what is death?  
A dim cocoon where I hang in silence,  
forever suspended, dumb with nothingness?  

I am tired.  
So terribly tired.  

Oh God,  
I haven’t even read the Bible today.  
I haven’t even prayed.  

This ache is greater than the God inside me.  

Look at me—  
how foolish I sound.  

You don’t believe in God, do you?  
And yet, you curse the gods.  
As if they are the reason we could never be.  

And you know what?  
I agree with them.  

Let’s end this.  
Go.