lying in the dark

“lying in the dark, lying to myself about us, about how we still feel real, how your name still sounds like home, how my hands still reach for you, forgetting there’s only air, forgetting I’m the only one here, pretending the silence is us breathing. the room knows you better than I do now, it remembers the weight you left behind, the way your laugh once softened the walls, the way your absence sharpens them. I replay old moments like they’re promises, freeze them mid-smile, mid-touch, as if time might get confused and bring you back by mistake. I tell myself we’re just paused, not over, that this distance is temporary, that you’re thinking of me the same way I’m thinking of you— too much, too late. but the dark doesn’t lie, it just listens, and every thought echoes back without your voice attached. I’m still here, holding onto a version of us that only exists when I close my eyes, when the world is quiet enough to let me pretend. lying in the dark, lying to myself, because letting go feels louder than staying.”