She did not fall into it,
it opened inside her.
A quiet collapse
light bending without spectacle,
every soft thing pulled inward
until even her name thinned
into something unrecognisable.
There is no ground here,
only a deepening,
the feeling of slipping past
a point no one returns from.
She tells herself to be careful,
as if grief has hands,
as if it chooses.
But it doesn’t.
It takes.
Her laughter stretches into silence,
her warmth shifts into distance,
a signal no one can decode.
People orbit still,
at first.
They call her back
like she is a place,
like she hasn’t begun
to become the gravity itself.
She wants to say
don’t come closer,
that even light fails here,
that love is not immune.
But the words don’t escape.
Nothing does.
So she holds them
like debris,
like borrowed stars
caught in a field that never asked
to exist.
And that is where the guilt lives:
not in the dark,
but in the pull.
In the way they dim
just by staying near.
She is not trying to consume them.
She is trying to stay contained.
But containment is a myth
once collapse begins.
She folds inward,
smaller, denser,
a secret no one can reach
without disappearing.
And still
they linger at the edges,
hoping she might release them.
As if she could.
She did not fall into it.
She is becoming it.
And everything she loves
is learning
how close is too close
to survive.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 4:55 PM UTC
She did not fall into it,
it opened inside her.
A quiet collapse
light bending without spectacle,
every soft thing pulled inward
until even her name thinned
into something unrecognisable.
There is no ground here,
only a deepening,
the feeling of slipping past
a point no one returns from.
She tells herself to be careful,
as if grief has hands,
as if it chooses.
But it doesn’t.
It takes.
Her laughter stretches into silence,
her warmth shifts into distance,
a signal no one can decode.
People orbit still,
at first.
They call her back
like she is a place,
like she hasn’t begun
to become the gravity itself.
She wants to say
don’t come closer,
that even light fails here,
that love is not immune.
But the words don’t escape.
Nothing does.
So she holds them
like debris,
like borrowed stars
caught in a field that never asked
to exist.
And that is where the guilt lives:
not in the dark,
but in the pull.
In the way they dim
just by staying near.
She is not trying to consume them.
She is trying to stay contained.
But containment is a myth
once collapse begins.
She folds inward,
smaller, denser,
a secret no one can reach
without disappearing.
And still
they linger at the edges,
hoping she might release them.
As if she could.
She did not fall into it.
She is becoming it.
And everything she loves
is learning
how close is too close
to survive.