#hers - Hello Poetry

In the quiet after the school run, doors clicking shut, kids' voices fading like echoes, she slips into the bedroom. Husband puttering in the kitchen maybe, coffee mug clinking against the counter. She perches at her cluttered vanity. Late thirties staring back, crow's feet from squinting at homework, laugh lines from silly family nights. Powders and lipsticks jumbled with half-empty bottles, earrings tangled like forgotten promises. But there, off to the side, not buried but waiting: that small matte wood box, simple as an old habit, revered in its quiet spot, away from the mess. She pulls it closer, into the warm glow of the mirror light. Fingers hesitating before lifting the lid. Inside: two silver bands, pure and unpretentious, thin swirls of blue and gold, like veins of memory. Tucked in the top, that photo. Him, young and goofy, arm slung around her, both mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with pure joy, back when life felt endless and unbreakable. He was her first real love, sparked in those awkward teen years, through the rough stuff. Broke days, family drama, dreams that bent but didn't break. They grew tough together, like roots twisting deep into shared soil. War took him, sudden and unfair, a hole that never quite fills, an ache that whispers in quiet moments like this. But before he left, he'd slipped these to her dad: "Make sure she gets them. Tell her they're us. Our story, the one we were gonna write." He'd planned the proposal, the forever, the quiet nights dreaming aloud. And with the rings, that note, paper worn soft from rereads: Find happiness again, without me. Live big, love again, scribble a new chapter with someone good, someone who sees your light. Flashes hit her now. Her kids' messy hair at breakfast, their giggles echoing his once-upon-a-time laugh; husband's sleepy grin over morning coffee, steady as the home they built. She's done it, built this life, honored his wish, yet the heart tugs, a tender pull between then and now. Tears ***** then spill, hot and messy. His rings. Still feel like his, cool in her palm, heavy with what-ifs. Sobs bubble up, chest tight, it's been forever since she let this out, thought she'd boxed it away for good. But nope, here it comes, raw as the day she lost him, grief blooming fresh and fierce. Then a warm hand on her shoulder. For a split-second, it's him, that old familiar touch, a ghost's whisper. Mirror shows her husband, smile gentle, eyes saying he gets it, holds space for her shadows. No jealousy, just quiet support. He leans in, kisses her hair, rubs her back in slow circles, then gives her space, stepping away soft as understanding. She sniffs, wipes her face with the back of her hand, dabs at the mascara smudges, lets out a shaky laugh through the ache. A fond smile creeps in. For that boy, that promise, the love that shaped her, and the messy, beautiful life she's writing now, layered with echoes of what was and what still beats on.

0

Nov 11, 2025

Nov 11, 2025 at 4:32 PM UTC

Nodrog

His/Hers

In the quiet after the school run, doors clicking shut, kids' voices fading like echoes, she slips into the bedroom. Husband puttering in the kitchen maybe, coffee mug clinking against the counter. She perches at her cluttered vanity. Late thirties staring back, crow's feet from squinting at homework, laugh lines from silly family nights. Powders and lipsticks jumbled with half-empty bottles, earrings tangled like forgotten promises. But there, off to the side, not buried but waiting: that small matte wood box, simple as an old habit, revered in its quiet spot, away from the mess. She pulls it closer, into the warm glow of the mirror light. Fingers hesitating before lifting the lid. Inside: two silver bands, pure and unpretentious, thin swirls of blue and gold, like veins of memory. Tucked in the top, that photo. Him, young and goofy, arm slung around her, both mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with pure joy, back when life felt endless and unbreakable. He was her first real love, sparked in those awkward teen years, through the rough stuff. Broke days, family drama, dreams that bent but didn't break. They grew tough together, like roots twisting deep into shared soil. War took him, sudden and unfair, a hole that never quite fills, an ache that whispers in quiet moments like this. But before he left, he'd slipped these to her dad: "Make sure she gets them. Tell her they're us. Our story, the one we were gonna write." He'd planned the proposal, the forever, the quiet nights dreaming aloud. And with the rings, that note, paper worn soft from rereads: Find happiness again, without me. Live big, love again, scribble a new chapter with someone good, someone who sees your light. Flashes hit her now. Her kids' messy hair at breakfast, their giggles echoing his once-upon-a-time laugh; husband's sleepy grin over morning coffee, steady as the home they built. She's done it, built this life, honored his wish, yet the heart tugs, a tender pull between then and now. Tears ***** then spill, hot and messy. His rings. Still feel like his, cool in her palm, heavy with what-ifs. Sobs bubble up, chest tight, it's been forever since she let this out, thought she'd boxed it away for good. But nope, here it comes, raw as the day she lost him, grief blooming fresh and fierce. Then a warm hand on her shoulder. For a split-second, it's him, that old familiar touch, a ghost's whisper. Mirror shows her husband, smile gentle, eyes saying he gets it, holds space for her shadows. No jealousy, just quiet support. He leans in, kisses her hair, rubs her back in slow circles, then gives her space, stepping away soft as understanding. She sniffs, wipes her face with the back of her hand, dabs at the mascara smudges, lets out a shaky laugh through the ache. A fond smile creeps in. For that boy, that promise, the love that shaped her, and the messy, beautiful life she's writing now, layered with echoes of what was and what still beats on.