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I can say “I love you” in a thousand ways, across a thousand moments. But do you hear my cry when I bury myself into my pillow—wondering how you can be so heartless as to not see the ache that longs for you, even as you long for it too?

This is it. Your job. Your mastery. Your self-compulsion.

And I wonder how you can miss it all while it stands right in front of you—yearning for your hands, for their light touch and their pressure, for anything that confirms I am still here—seen, touched, heard, wanted, listened to by you.

It wasn’t until one fated day that he became so open to her that the only thing left of her was the imprint of tears on a pillow—slowly erased by shadows, by exhaustion, by the quiet decay of being unseen.

She learned to wear strength like clothing. A strong face for the world. A silent one for herself.

And still, she loved him.

Still gave him what he needed.

While her own needs went unmet—untouched, unrecognized—not because he was incapable of seeing, but because he was too occupied to notice what was already in front of him.

The room still carried her fragrance. That was all that remained of her presence. Her body no longer held. Her mind no longer witnessed.

And he moved on.

Returned to his nature.

Unchanged.

Never asking why.
Never asking how.
Never realizing what had already been lost.