we sit in circle

We sit in a circle—no edges, no corners. We expand, but we never form a cube.

It’s been us since we were three: scraped knees, curled hair, fights over fruit, stolen sweaters, sneaking out, first drinks, first paychecks. Each memory a fragment scattered across each other’s rooms, tied together by an invisible string. Pinky promises we actually kept. We fought through hell, even fought each other, but we always returned to the circle.

And then, grief.

None of us noticed when one began slipping—quietly, slowly. We, the same ones who could speak without words, who read each other’s smallest gestures—fingers fidgeting, hands running through hair, the tiniest shifts—missed it. Or maybe we only thought we understood.

Now we stand in black. Five, not six. The circle undone. We question ourselves, again and again.

But the thing about circles is this: when one leaves, the shape doesn’t change. It only shrinks. The absence is heavy, sharp, undeniable—but the circle stays a circle.

And so we sit. Smaller, broken, yet unbroken. Still in a loop.