In the quiet of the night, I felt it—
his pain, pressing heavy on my chest.
He didn’t say a word, but it hung between us,
thick in the air like unshed tears.

I was supposed to be his joy,
his first love, the light in his days.
But my words—careless, sharp—
cut him where I couldn’t see.
And I didn’t know, not really,
how much I’d hurt him
until I felt it echo inside me.

A silent ache—mine and his—
wrapped around my ribs like regret.
That night, I finally saw it:
what love can carry,
and how easily we break the things we hold dear.

Morning brought clarity,
gentle and cruel all at once.
And as the light crept in,
I saw my mistake not as a moment,
but a wound that lingered.

He was my first love,
the one who held my heart so gently.
And now, all I could do was watch
as he carried the weight I gave him.

If I could go back, I would—
unsay, undo, unhurt.
But love doesn’t always forgive
just because you finally understand.
And I’m left with this truth:
that love is fragile,
and words, once spoken,
can last far longer than we ever mean them to.