We didn’t break in one moment

We didn’t break in one moment—

we cracked slowly,

like glass under heat,

pretending not to notice the lines forming

between “good morning” and “good night.”

You stopped asking if I’d eaten.

I stopped reminding you to sleep.

Love became a quiet guest

we forgot to feed.

I remember the way you looked at me

as if I was the answer—

and how, one day,

you started searching for new questions.

We kept holding on,

but our hands were full of splinters.

Every word we saved

turned into distance.

Maybe we were meant

to teach each other how to leave gently,

how to walk away

without making it sound like running.

And now,

when I see your name light up somewhere,

I don’t feel the storm—

just a small ache,

like rain on old wood,

soft, but still remembering fire.