I have written you in fragments before—
in quiet places,
in the spaces where your name echoes louder than it should.

I have looked for you in rooms
I knew you would never walk into,
reached for you in moments
that were never yours to hold,
missed you in a way that sits under my skin—
anxious, restless, unrelenting.

And I know—
there were no promises.
No forever wrapped in your words.
No soft guarantees I could hold onto.

We barely existed long enough
to make sense of this.

And still—
here I am,
feeling you like a bruise
I keep pressing
just to remember it’s real.

Sometimes I tell myself
this is ridiculous.
That I should be over it.
Over you.

But it isn’t ridiculous.

Because you didn’t just see me—
you explored me.
You stepped into parts of me I keep hidden,
mapped them
with your hands,
your presence,
your attention.

You were the first.
And that kind of first doesn’t leave quietly.
It carves.
It lingers.
It reshapes you.

There was something between us—
don’t pretend there wasn’t.
A chemistry that didn’t ask for permission.
A pull I didn’t know how to resist.
A softness that made me forget
how to guard myself.

I know you felt it too.
Just not enough.

Not enough to stay.
Not enough to choose me in the light—
only enough
to reach for me in the dark.

And I never blamed you for that.

But don’t make me feel small
for feeling more.
Don’t make me feel like my heart is too much
just because it beats louder than yours.

I am not weak for this.
I am not less because I feel like this.

I miss you—
in the quiet,
in the in-between,
on the days I almost forget
what your voice sounds like.

I told you once—
I have to figure out how to get over you.
And you let me go so easily
it made me question
if I imagined
the weight of your hands on me at all.

So I started healing.

Slowly.
Clumsily.
Piece by fragile piece.

I found a small light again.
I started breathing
without you in it.

And then—
you come back.

Not fully.
Never fully.

Just enough.

A message that means nothing.
A “how are you”
that carries no real question.

A thread—
thin, careless—
but strong enough
to pull me back under.

And you know it.

You know I would have given you
anything you asked for.
That I would have stayed—
bent, softened, opened—
just to be wanted by you.

And maybe that’s what hurts most.

Not that you didn’t choose me—
but that you keep choosing me halfway.

In fragments.
In moments that cost you nothing
and cost me everything.

Tell me—
do you want me?

Or do you just want to know
that you still can?

Because I am not something
you get to return to
whenever loneliness brushes against you.

I am not a place
you visit
when you have nowhere else to go.

It feels like you reached inside my chest,
wrapped my heart
in something that almost felt like safety—

and when you were done,
you pulled it back out,
pressed your weight into it,
left fingerprints
I cannot wash away.

It still beats—
but it stutters now.
It hesitates.

It remembers you
before it remembers me.

And I hate that.

I hate that you changed me.
That you softened something
I had spent years protecting,
only to leave it open
when you walked away.

You didn’t ruin me.

But you rearranged me
in ways I am still learning
how to live with.

And I wish—
more than anything—
that when you left,
you didn’t make it feel
like I was nothing at all.

JMS