ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ ⁠ᴥ⁠•̥⁠`⁠ʔ

It is a heavy, quiet tragedy to watch you hold those scissors and mourn the cut as it happens. I know the bluntness is killing you, too— that you are not a cold architect of this silence, but a passenger to your own sense of duty.

It’s hard to watch you feel the weight of a choice you feel forced to make, weeping at a blade you wish you didn't have to carry.

I keep looking back, trying to find the exact moment the floor fell away. I don’t know why we came to this. One moment we were anchored in the mundane—talking about random, beautiful nothingness—and then, somehow, the air changed. I don’t remember the shift. I don't remember the turning point, and a part of me has begun to hate the memory for how it betrayed us.

If I could go back in time and catch my own words before I said them, I would. I would stop the conversation right there, while things were still simple and safe, just to prevent all this damage. I would keep us small and meaningless if it meant I got to keep you at all. I would choose the "nothing" of our banter over the "nothing" of this void.

I am still standing where you left me, refusing to believe the story is over. I want to fold the map until the distance between us disappears and erase the borders you spent so much time drawing. I’d rather drown in the "mess" of us or stand still in the "waiting" than be safe and dry in this emptiness. I would have lived in the "almost" forever—a house halfway built—just to stay under the same roof as you. I wasn’t ready to let the anchor go, and I am still here, holding the rope while you drift away.

I miss you. And the weight of that—the sheer, unadulterated weight of your absence—is killing me.