Ten years.
And here we are.
Full circle.
Older.
Tired.

I left.
I built the house.
The ring. The vows.
Six years tied tight—
cribs, birthdays, broken sleep.

And you—
you stayed.
Alone in the city I escaped.
Same crowd and buzz,
same silence
I once called freedom.

I ran.
I chose.
And now I stand here
in front of you
as if none of that happened.
As if the knot on my finger
is loose in the dark.

What are we doing?
Why are we here?
Two people who let go—
one to drown in duty,
one to float in drift—
meeting again like the world forgot
we finished this.

You look the same like I was time travelling
I grew twice my years
maybe just wanting
to know why it still stirs.
Why the thread pulls
even now.

Is this memory?
Regret?
Loneliness?
Or the sharp, quiet ache
of what was never done?

We are older.
But not past it.
Not beyond the question:

Why?