Whispers Of The Enchanted Heart

Some things stay. Not because they were beautiful. Because they were unfinished. I have a habit of saying things I shouldn't. Turns out it's easier to be honest with strangers than with the one person whose opinion of you actually kept you up at night. She used to hide her face when she laughed. I never told her I noticed. I never told her a lot of things. The last real thing she said to me was "I don't have time for this" and I've been living inside that sentence ever since. Not because it hurt the most. Because it felt like a door I watched close in slow motion, knowing my hand was on the handle and choosing, for reasons I still can't justify, to let go. The moon went full and came back again. And again. I kept thinking I'd find the right words by morning. I didn't. What I found instead was everything I should have said, arriving too late, attaching itself to the wrong moments, the wrong people, the wrong rooms. You don't lose someone and grieve them cleanly. You lose them and then keep finding pieces of them in places they never were. She came back, eventually. The way unfinished things always do. And standing in front of her, I finally understood: some silences aren't empty. They're just waiting for someone brave enough to break them. I'm still deciding if that someone is me.