Where the Heart Once Lived

I used to know laughter,

how it echoed in the corners of small rooms,

where eyes met without fear

and hands held on like promises.

I used to count stars without wishing,

because everything I needed was already here —

in quiet mornings, messy kitchens,

and the way someone once said my name.

But time,

that silent thief,

has taken more than just years.

It has stolen presence.

Now I sit beside shadows,

naming ghosts with familiar faces,

drinking tea with echoes

and pretending I don't mind the silence.

Do you remember the day it all changed?

I don't.

It didn't scream or slam any doors —

it simply faded, like breath on cold glass.

I write these words not to be wise,

not to be known,

but just to feel something echo back

from the hollow of this lonely room.

The hardest part isn't being alone.

It’s being forgotten

by someone you still remember

every time the rain falls just right.

Grief isn't loud —

it's quiet like unread messages,

missed calls,

and people scrolling past your soul

without noticing it was ever there.

I don't ask for much.

Not applause, not stars,

just a moment —

where someone says,

“I felt this too.”

Because sadness becomes a cage

when no one else can see the bars.

Once, love lived here.

Now, dust settles where dreams slept,

and the only heartbeat left

is the one I fake through written lines.

“I gave my heart to words,

but the world read past them.”



“If these lines reached you — even softly — maybe we were both a little less alone tonight.”

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