I’m holding on to a thread of hope,
fragile and fraying between my fingers.
It’s quiet here
the kind of quiet that knows too much.
I tell myself maybe,
maybe one day you’ll see me
the way I’ve always seen you
with both eyes open,
with a heart that doesn’t hesitate.
But even as I whisper it,
I know I’m the only one still holding on.
You’ve already loosened your grip,
already drifted somewhere I can’t follow.
And yet… I can’t seem to let go.
Because that thread,
as small as it is,
still feels like something that once was real.
I replay the softness
your laugh,
the way my name sounded when you cared.
I keep them folded inside me like proof
that it wasn’t all in my head.
But truth doesn’t need convincing
it just is.
And mine is this:
I’m still here, loving in silence,
waiting for something I know won’t come.
Maybe that’s what love sometimes is
the ache that refuses to die,
the hope that keeps breathing
even after the story ends.
And when the thread finally breaks,
I hope it doesn’t hurt
I hope it just slips away,
softly,
like the way you did.
