sheets
I curled into myself, the sheets tangled around my legs like they were trying to hold me together.
My face was soaked before I even realized I was crying.
When did we get here?
My heart wouldn’t slow down.
It was beating so hard it almost felt angry,
like it was knocking against my ribs asking me why I let it love this much.
The sound of his luggage zipper cut through the room. Slow. Final.
Every small movement felt cruel. The shuffle of his things. The soft thud of him setting something down.
When I heard him slip his shoes on, I knew. He was ready. Ready to walk out.
And I covered my ears like a child.
Because if I didn’t hear the door open, maybe it wouldn’t mean he was actually leaving.
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If I don’t hear it, maybe it’s not happening.
But I still heard it.
That quiet click of the handle. The air shifting. The silence that followed.
He walked out like his pride was heavier than everything we built. Like it mattered more than staying.
When did it all fall apart?
We used to laugh so easily.
We used to look at each other like we were home.
I was happy. He was happy. At least I thought we were.
Now I’m just here, in a bed that suddenly feels too big,
trying to understand how love can feel so warm one day and so cold the next.
