u/Trinketsandpaints

A new cook arrived

young, handsome, Italian,

carrying sunlight in the easy way he moved.

​

The first time our eyes met,

I lifted my hand in greeting,

a small bridge of kindness between strangers.

​

But he stood still.

​

Not cruel, not angry

just still.

​

And in that stillness,

something old woke up inside me.

​

Not disappointment.

Something deeper.

​

A familiar voice crawling out of dark corners:

​

"Of course."

​

The second time,

I gathered my courage again.

​

"Buongiorno," I said.

​

His lips moved, barely.

A word without warmth,

a greeting without arrival.

​

Then he turned,

talking easily with others,

laughter flowing from him like water.

​

And suddenly I was no longer standing there.

​

I was every insecurity I had ever carried.

​

Every cruel comparison.

​

Every silent question:

​

Would he have smiled if I were thinner?

​

If my skin were lighter?

​

If beauty had chosen me too?

​

The mind is a merciless storyteller.

​

Within seconds,

it built an entire universe from one unfinished greeting.

​

In that universe,

I was too much and never enough.

​

Too visible.

​

Too forgettable.

​

A body taking up space

where admiration could never live.

​

And while he continued his morning,

perhaps thinking of recipes, deliveries, or nothing at all,

​

inside me

​

an ancient darkness unfolded

​

like a blanket woven from years of doubt,

​

covering every small light I had managed to keep alive.

​

I stood there smiling politely,

​

while inside

​

something whispered:

​

"Even a smile is a privilege not meant for you."

A new cook arrived

young, handsome, Italian,

carrying sunlight in the easy way he moved.

​

The first time our eyes met,

I lifted my hand in greeting,

a small bridge of kindness between strangers.

​

But he stood still.

​

Not cruel, not angry

just still.

​

And in that stillness,

something old woke up inside me.

​

Not disappointment.

Something deeper.

​

A familiar voice crawling out of dark corners:

​

"Of course."

​

The second time,

I gathered my courage again.

​

"Buongiorno," I said.

​

His lips moved, barely.

A word without warmth,

a greeting without arrival.

​

Then he turned,

talking easily with others,

laughter flowing from him like water.

​

And suddenly I was no longer standing there.

​

I was every insecurity I had ever carried.

​

Every cruel comparison.

​

Every silent question:

​

Would he have smiled if I were thinner?

​

If my skin were lighter?

​

If beauty had chosen me too?

​

The mind is a merciless storyteller.

​

Within seconds,

it built an entire universe from one unfinished greeting.

​

In that universe,

I was too much and never enough.

​

Too visible.

​

Too forgettable.

​

A body taking up space

where admiration could never live.

​

And while he continued his morning,

perhaps thinking of works, deliveries, or nothing at all,

​

inside me

​

an ancient darkness unfolded

​

like a blanket woven from years of doubt,

​

covering every small light I had managed to keep alive.

​

I stood there smiling politely,

​

while inside

​

something whispered:

​

"Even a smile is a privilege not meant for you."

There are people

the world notices

the moment they enter a room

​

stars demanding attention,

fires impossible to ignore.

​

And then there was you.

​

The world would have called you ordinary.

Maybe less than extraordinary

by its shallow measures.

​

But the world never saw

what I saw.

​

I saw galaxies

hidden inside your smile.

​

When your dimples appeared,

they felt like little secrets

the universe trusted only to those you loved.

​

Every time they surfaced,

my heart surrendered again.

​

You were never loud.

​

You never chased admiration.

​

You were simply kind.

​

Not the kind that speaks of healing

​

the kind that heals.

​

When life broke me,

you never told me to be stronger.

​

You sat beside me

and carried part of the weight.

​

And somehow,

that was enough.

​

My favorite memories

were born after midnight.

​

After love,

when sleep hovered softly around us

and dreams began touching reality,

​

I would wake for a moment

and find your place beside me empty.

​

A brief panic.

​

A tiny ache.

​

Then I'd see you.

​

Under the yellow lamp

in the corner of our apartment.

​

Hair gathered into a messy bun,

a paintbrush tucked through it

like a wand forgotten by a fairy.

​

And I would smile.

​

While the world slept,

you painted.

​

Colors flowed beneath your fingertips

as though you were translating dreams

into a language the eyes could understand.

​

Other nights,

you wrote poetry.

​

Small constellations of words

scattered across waiting pages.

​

Once, at three in the morning,

you wrote:

​

"The moon survives every night

by borrowing light.

Maybe people survive

by borrowing love."

​

I pretended to sleep.

​

Just so I could watch you.

​

The scratching of your pen.

​

The scent of paint.

​

The quiet holiness of a woman

creating beauty

while the universe held its breath.

​

I believed there would be

thousands more nights.

​

I was wrong.

​

Death does not ask permission.

​

It does not care

about unfinished paintings,

half-filled notebooks,

or futures still unfolding.

​

It does not care

how deeply someone is loved.

​

One day,

you were here.

​

And then

you weren't.

​

Now the apartment

is quieter than silence.

​

Your paintbrushes wait untouched.

​

Your notebooks remain closed.

​

The chair beneath the lamp

keeps its lonely vigil

for someone who will never return.

Still,

some nights,

I look toward that corner.

A foolish hope

lingers in the dark.

Expecting your sleepy smile.

Expecting your dimples.

Expecting you to lift a half-finished canvas

and ask,

"What do you think?"

And I would answer

the same way every time:

Everything you touched

became beautiful.

Even me.

People say

time heals.

I think they're mistaken.

Time does not heal.

Time teaches us

how to carry grief

without letting it fall.

So I carry you.

In sunsets

you would have painted.

In poems

you would have loved.

In every act of kindness

because you taught me

how to be gentle.

And when the night grows quiet enough,

I imagine you somewhere beyond sight,

painting another masterpiece,

writing another poem,

smiling that impossible smile,

those dimples appearing once more.

Waiting.

Until the day I find you again,

I will live the way you taught me:

borrowing light

from the memory of your love,

just as the moon

borrows light

from the sun.

They walk into rooms

and the world opens its doors.

Smiles find them.

Conversations choose them.

Hands reach for them

without hesitation.

The attractive people laugh together,

their names carried lightly in every crowd,

while I stand at the edge of the picture

like a shadow nobody notices.

Not ugly enough to be remembered,

not beautiful enough to be seen.

I watch friendships bloom around me

like gardens behind locked gates.

Everyone else seems invited.

Everyone else belongs.

The cruelest loneliness

is not being alone.

It is sitting among people

and feeling invisible.

It is realizing no one wonders where you are,

no one saves you a seat,

no one searches for your face in a crowd.

They say beauty is only skin deep,

yet beauty opens doors

I have spent years knocking on.

And every unanswered knock

becomes another wound.

I do not envy their happiness.

I grieve the things I never had:

the easy conversations,

the spontaneous messages,

the feeling of being chosen.

Not even for love

but for friendship,

for belonging,

for a place in someone's life.

Because some hearts break from losing love.

Mine breaks from never being given

the chance to begin.

The knock came just after sunset.

​

Mira looked up from the book in her lap, confused. Nobody visited her apartment in the quiet neighborhood outside Rome.

​

Another knock.

​

When she opened the door, her breath vanished.

​

Standing there was the man from the flight.

​

Twenty-five years old. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Beautiful in the kind of effortless way that made people stare without meaning to.

​

His turquoise eyes gleamed beneath dark curls.

​

And when he smiled, those sharp little canines appeared again—the smile she had secretly remembered far too many times.

​

In his hands were a bouquet of deep red roses and a navy-blue box tied with a silver ribbon.

​

"Ciao, Mira."

​

Her heart nearly stopped.

​

"Leonardo?"

​

His grin widened.

​

"Mi hai riconosciuto."

​

You recognized me.

​

"Che cosa ci fai qui?" she whispered.

​

What are you doing here?

​

"I came to see you."

​

The simplicity of the answer made her dizzy.

​

Three months earlier they had met on a flight from Milan.

​

She had expected a polite conversation and then permanent silence.

​

Instead they had spoken for the entire journey.

​

About books.

​

Art.

​

Cinema.

​

Ancient architecture.

​

The tiny details people usually ignored.

​

She had talked too much, as always.

​

Yet Leonardo had listened as if every word mattered.

​

And now he was standing at her door.

​

Holding roses.

​

Holding gifts.

​

Looking impossibly happy.

​

Inside her apartment, Leonardo seemed fascinated by everything.

​

The shelves of books.

​

The half-finished sketches.

​

The clutter.

​

The imperfections.

​

As though he had entered a museum.

​

Finally he handed her the bouquet.

​

Then the box.

​

Inside lay a special-edition watch with a moon-blue dial.

​

Mira stared.

​

"Leonardo..."

​

"I remembered what you said."

​

"What?"

​

"You told me watches are proof that moments can become memories."

​

She looked at him.

​

"You remembered that?"

​

His turquoise eyes softened.

​

"I remember almost everything you said."

​

That frightened her more than the gift.

​

Because nobody remembered her words.

​

Nobody remembered her at all.

​

Leonardo sat opposite her.

​

Excitement radiated from him.

​

"I searched for weeks before deciding to come."

​

"You what?"

​

"I wanted to see you again."

​

"Why?"

​

The question escaped before she could stop it.

​

Leonardo looked genuinely surprised.

​

"Because I missed you."

​

Mira's chest tightened painfully.

​

She looked away.

​

Because she missed him too.

​

She missed his laugh.

​

His expressive hands.

​

His turquoise eyes.

​

His perfect jawline.

​

The way those sharp canines appeared whenever he smiled.

​

The warmth in his voice.

​

The kindness hidden beneath his confidence.

​

It was unfair.

​

He was everything she had imagined during lonely nights.

​

Everything she had wished for.

​

Everything she never believed she could have.

​

"Leonardo."

​

"Sì?"

​

"This isn't real."

​

His smile faded.

​

"What isn't?"

​

"This."

​

He frowned.

​

She forced herself to continue.

​

"You are handsome."

​

A small smile returned.

​

"Grazie."

​

"I'm serious."

​

"So am I."

​

"You'll find someone beautiful."

​

"Mira—"

​

"Someone people actually want."

​

His expression hardened.

​

"Enough."

​

She blinked.

​

"No."

​

His voice was calm but firm.

​

"Don't tell me what I want."

​

Tears stung her eyes.

​

"You don't understand."

​

"Then explain."

​

She swallowed.

​

"No man has ever wanted me."

​

Silence.

​

"No boyfriend."

​

Silence.

​

"No proposals."

​

Her voice shook.

​

"I'm awkward. I avoid people. Half the time I don't even know how to exist properly."

​

Leonardo said nothing.

​

So she delivered the final blow.

​

"And I can't have children."

​

The room fell silent.

​

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

​

Mira stared at the floor.

​

"There. Now you know."

​

Several moments passed.

​

Then Leonardo laughed softly.

​

Not mockingly.

​

Sadly.

​

She looked up.

​

"Why are you laughing?"

​

He leaned forward.

​

"Because you think those things are reasons not to love someone."

​

Her heart skipped.

​

Love.

​

The word hung between them.

​

Dangerous.

​

Beautiful.

​

Terrifying.

​

"Leonardo..."

​

"I've met beautiful women."

​

His voice was gentle.

​

"Women everyone admired."

​

He shrugged.

​

"I forgot most of them."

​

His eyes locked onto hers.

​

"But I remember every hour of that flight."

​

Mira couldn't breathe.

​

"You made me think."

​

He smiled.

​

"You made me laugh."

​

Another smile.

​

"You made me see things differently."

​

His voice lowered.

​

"When we landed, I didn't want the conversation to end."

​

The tears escaped.

​

One after another.

​

Leonardo's face softened immediately.

​

"Mira."

​

She shook her head.

​

"You'll regret this."

​

"No."

​

"You'll lose your shine."

​

That made him laugh.

​

"My shine?"

​

"Your aura."

​

"Mamma mia."

​

A smile broke through her tears.

​

The first one.

​

Leonardo looked at her as though she were sunlight.

​

"I don't care about my aura."

​

"I do."

​

"Why?"

​

"Because you're wonderful."

​

The answer came before she could stop it.

​

For a moment neither of them moved.

​

Then Leonardo stood.

​

Walked toward her.

​

And knelt in front of her chair.

​

Not dramatically.

​

Not like in films.

​

Just close enough that she could see every fleck of turquoise in his eyes.

​

"Mira."

​

His voice was almost a whisper.

​

"Do you know what I saw on that plane?"

​

She shook her head.

​

"I saw a woman who speaks about books as if they're alive."

​

His fingers gently brushed hers.

​

"A woman who notices beauty where nobody else looks."

​

Another pause.

​

"A woman who thinks she is difficult to love."

​

His smile appeared.

​

Those sharp canines again.

​

The smile she adored.

​

"And she's completely wrong."

​

Mira closed her eyes.

​

Because hearing it hurt.

​

Because believing it hurt even more.

​

When she opened them again, Leonardo was still there.

​

Still smiling.

​

Still choosing her.

​

"I want you," she admitted.

​

The confession broke apart as it left her lips.

​

His expression softened instantly.

​

"And I'm terrified."

​

For the first time all evening, Leonardo looked afraid too.

​

Not of her.

​

Of losing her.

​

Then he squeezed her hand.

​

"Good."

​

She blinked.

​

"Good?"

​

"That means this matters."

​

The rain continued outside.

​

The roses perfumed the room.

​

And neither of them knew what would happen tomorrow.

​

But for the first time, Mira allowed herself to imagine that maybe destiny wasn't something magical.

​

Maybe it was simply a handsome Italian man with turquoise eyes, standing at her door, refusing to leave when she gave him every reason to.

They walk into rooms

and the world opens its doors.

Smiles find them.

Conversations choose them.

Hands reach for them

without hesitation.

The attractive people laugh together,

their names carried lightly in every crowd,

while I stand at the edge of the picture

like a shadow nobody notices.

Not ugly enough to be remembered,

not beautiful enough to be seen.

I watch friendships bloom around me

like gardens behind locked gates.

Everyone else seems invited.

Everyone else belongs.

The cruelest loneliness

is not being alone.

It is sitting among people

and feeling invisible.

It is realizing no one wonders where you are,

no one saves you a seat,

no one searches for your face in a crowd.

They say beauty is only skin deep,

yet beauty opens doors

I have spent years knocking on.

And every unanswered knock

becomes another wound.

I do not envy their happiness.

I grieve the things I never had:

the easy conversations,

the spontaneous messages,

the feeling of being chosen.

Not even for love

but for friendship,

for belonging,

for a place in someone's life.

Because some hearts break from losing love.

Mine breaks from never being given

the chance to begin.

They walk into rooms

and the world opens its doors.

Smiles find them.

Conversations choose them.

Hands reach for them

without hesitation.

The attractive people laugh together,

their names carried lightly in every crowd,

while I stand at the edge of the picture

like a shadow nobody notices.

Not ugly enough to be remembered,

not beautiful enough to be seen.

I watch friendships bloom around me

like gardens behind locked gates.

Everyone else seems invited.

Everyone else belongs.

The cruelest loneliness

is not being alone.

It is sitting among people

and feeling invisible.

It is realizing no one wonders where you are,

no one saves you a seat,

no one searches for your face in a crowd.

They say beauty is only skin deep,

yet beauty opens doors

I have spent years knocking on.

And every unanswered knock

becomes another wound.

I do not envy their happiness.

I grieve the things I never had:

the easy conversations,

the spontaneous messages,

the feeling of being chosen.

Not even for love

but for friendship,

for belonging,

for a place in someone's life.

Because some hearts break from losing love.

Mine breaks from never being given

the chance to begin.

They walk into rooms

and the world opens its doors.

Smiles find them.

Conversations choose them.

Hands reach for them

without hesitation.

The attractive people laugh together,

their names carried lightly in every crowd,

while I stand at the edge of the picture

like a shadow nobody notices.

Not ugly enough to be remembered,

not beautiful enough to be seen.

I watch friendships bloom around me

like gardens behind locked gates.

Everyone else seems invited.

Everyone else belongs.

The cruelest loneliness

is not being alone.

It is sitting among people

and feeling invisible.

It is realizing no one wonders where you are,

no one saves you a seat,

no one searches for your face in a crowd.

They say beauty is only skin deep,

yet beauty opens doors

I have spent years knocking on.

And every unanswered knock

becomes another wound.

I do not envy their happiness.

I grieve the things I never had:

the easy conversations,

the spontaneous messages,

the feeling of being chosen.

Not even for love

but for friendship,

for belonging,

for a place in someone's life.

Because some hearts break from losing love.

Mine breaks from never being given

the chance to begin.

They walk into rooms

and the world opens its doors.

Smiles find them.

Conversations choose them.

Hands reach for them

without hesitation.

The attractive people laugh together,

their names carried lightly in every crowd,

while I stand at the edge of the picture

like a shadow nobody notices.

Not ugly enough to be remembered,

not beautiful enough to be seen.

I watch friendships bloom around me

like gardens behind locked gates.

Everyone else seems invited.

Everyone else belongs.

The cruelest loneliness

is not being alone.

It is sitting among people

and feeling invisible.

It is realizing no one wonders where you are,

no one saves you a seat,

no one searches for your face in a crowd.

They say beauty is only skin deep,

yet beauty opens doors

I have spent years knocking on.

And every unanswered knock

becomes another wound.

I do not envy their happiness.

I grieve the things I never had:

the easy conversations,

the spontaneous messages,

the feeling of being chosen.

Not even for love

but for friendship,

for belonging,

for a place in someone's life.

Because some hearts break from losing love.

Mine breaks from never being given

the chance to begin.

They walk into rooms

and the world opens its doors.

Smiles find them.

Conversations choose them.

Hands reach for them

without hesitation.

The attractive people laugh together,

their names carried lightly in every crowd,

while I stand at the edge of the picture

like a shadow nobody notices.

Not ugly enough to be remembered,

not beautiful enough to be seen.

I watch friendships bloom around me

like gardens behind locked gates.

Everyone else seems invited.

Everyone else belongs.

The cruelest loneliness

is not being alone.

It is sitting among people

and feeling invisible.

It is realizing no one wonders where you are,

no one saves you a seat,

no one searches for your face in a crowd.

They say beauty is only skin deep,

yet beauty opens doors

I have spent years knocking on.

And every unanswered knock

becomes another wound.

I do not envy their happiness.

I grieve the things I never had:

the easy conversations,

the spontaneous messages,

the feeling of being chosen.

Not even for love

but for friendship,

for belonging,

for a place in someone's life.

Because some hearts break from losing love.

Mine breaks from never being given

the chance to begin.

They walk into rooms

and the world opens its doors.

Smiles find them.

Conversations choose them.

Hands reach for them

without hesitation.

The attractive people laugh together,

their names carried lightly in every crowd,

while I stand at the edge of the picture

like a shadow nobody notices.

Not ugly enough to be remembered,

not beautiful enough to be seen.

I watch friendships bloom around me

like gardens behind locked gates.

Everyone else seems invited.

Everyone else belongs.

The cruelest loneliness

is not being alone.

It is sitting among people

and feeling invisible.

It is realizing no one wonders where you are,

no one saves you a seat,

no one searches for your face in a crowd.

They say beauty is only skin deep,

yet beauty opens doors

I have spent years knocking on.

And every unanswered knock

becomes another wound.

I do not envy their happiness.

I grieve the things I never had:

the easy conversations,

the spontaneous messages,

the feeling of being chosen.

Not even for love

but for friendship,

for belonging,

for a place in someone's life.

Because some hearts break from losing love.

Mine breaks from never being given

the chance to begin.

They walk into rooms

and the world opens its doors.

Smiles find them.

Conversations choose them.

Hands reach for them

without hesitation.

The attractive people laugh together,

their names carried lightly in every crowd,

while I stand at the edge of the picture

like a shadow nobody notices.

Not ugly enough to be remembered,

not beautiful enough to be seen.

I watch friendships bloom around me

like gardens behind locked gates.

Everyone else seems invited.

Everyone else belongs.

The cruelest loneliness

is not being alone.

It is sitting among people

and feeling invisible.

It is realizing no one wonders where you are,

no one saves you a seat,

no one searches for your face in a crowd.

They say beauty is only skin deep,

yet beauty opens doors

I have spent years knocking on.

And every unanswered knock

becomes another wound.

I do not envy their happiness.

I grieve the things I never had:

the easy conversations,

the spontaneous messages,

the feeling of being chosen.

Not even for love

but for friendship,

for belonging,

for a place in someone's life.

Because some hearts break from losing love.

Mine breaks from never being given

the chance to begin.

There are people

the world notices

the moment they enter a room

​

stars demanding attention,

fires impossible to ignore.

​

And then there was you.

​

The world would have called you ordinary.

Maybe less than extraordinary

by its shallow measures.

​

But the world never saw

what I saw.

​

I saw galaxies

hidden inside your smile.

​

When your dimples appeared,

they felt like little secrets

the universe trusted only to those you loved.

​

Every time they surfaced,

my heart surrendered again.

​

You were never loud.

​

You never chased admiration.

​

You were simply kind.

​

Not the kind that speaks of healing

​

the kind that heals.

​

When life broke me,

you never told me to be stronger.

​

You sat beside me

and carried part of the weight.

​

And somehow,

that was enough.

​

My favorite memories

were born after midnight.

​

After love,

when sleep hovered softly around us

and dreams began touching reality,

​

I would wake for a moment

and find your place beside me empty.

​

A brief panic.

​

A tiny ache.

​

Then I'd see you.

​

Under the yellow lamp

in the corner of our apartment.

​

Hair gathered into a messy bun,

a paintbrush tucked through it

like a wand forgotten by a fairy.

​

And I would smile.

​

While the world slept,

you painted.

​

Colors flowed beneath your fingertips

as though you were translating dreams

into a language the eyes could understand.

​

Other nights,

you wrote poetry.

​

Small constellations of words

scattered across waiting pages.

​

Once, at three in the morning,

you wrote:

​

"The moon survives every night

by borrowing light.

Maybe people survive

by borrowing love."

​

I pretended to sleep.

​

Just so I could watch you.

​

The scratching of your pen.

​

The scent of paint.

​

The quiet holiness of a woman

creating beauty

while the universe held its breath.

​

I believed there would be

thousands more nights.

​

I was wrong.

​

Death does not ask permission.

​

It does not care

about unfinished paintings,

half-filled notebooks,

or futures still unfolding.

​

It does not care

how deeply someone is loved.

​

One day,

you were here.

​

And then

​

you weren't.

​

Now the apartment

is quieter than silence.

​

Your paintbrushes wait untouched.

​

Your notebooks remain closed.

​

The chair beneath the lamp

keeps its lonely vigil

for someone who will never return.

​

Still,

some nights,

I look toward that corner.

​

A foolish hope

lingers in the dark.

​

Expecting your sleepy smile.

​

Expecting your dimples.

​

Expecting you to lift a half-finished canvas

and ask,

​

"What do you think?"

​

And I would answer

the same way every time:

​

Everything you touched

became beautiful.

​

Even me.

​

People say

time heals.

​

I think they're mistaken.

​

Time does not heal.

​

Time teaches us

how to carry grief

without letting it fall.

​

So I carry you.

​

In sunsets

you would have painted.

​

In poems

you would have loved.

​

In every act of kindness

because you taught me

how to be gentle.

​

And when the night grows quiet enough,

​

I imagine you somewhere beyond sight—

​

painting another masterpiece,

​

writing another poem,

​

smiling that impossible smile,

​

those dimples appearing once more.

​

Waiting.

​

Until the day I find you again,

​

I will live the way you taught me:

​

borrowing light

from the memory of your love,

​

just as the moon

borrows light

from the sun.

There are people

the world notices

the moment they enter a room

​

stars demanding attention,

fires impossible to ignore.

​

And then there was you.

​

The world would have called you ordinary.

Maybe less than extraordinary

by its shallow measures.

​

But the world never saw

what I saw.

​

I saw galaxies

hidden inside your smile.

​

When your dimples appeared,

they felt like little secrets

the universe trusted only to those you loved.

​

Every time they surfaced,

my heart surrendered again.

​

You were never loud.

​

You never chased admiration.

​

You were simply kind.

​

Not the kind that speaks of healing—

​

the kind that heals.

​

When life broke me,

you never told me to be stronger.

​

You sat beside me

and carried part of the weight.

​

And somehow,

that was enough.

​

My favorite memories

were born after midnight.

​

After love,

when sleep hovered softly around us

and dreams began touching reality,

​

I would wake for a moment

and find your place beside me empty.

​

A brief panic.

​

A tiny ache.

​

Then I'd see you.

​

Under the yellow lamp

in the corner of our apartment.

​

Hair gathered into a messy bun,

a paintbrush tucked through it

like a wand forgotten by a fairy.

​

And I would smile.

​

While the world slept,

you painted.

​

Colors flowed beneath your fingertips

as though you were translating dreams

into a language the eyes could understand.

​

Other nights,

you wrote poetry.

​

Small constellations of words

scattered across waiting pages.

​

Once, at three in the morning,

you wrote:

​

"The moon survives every night

by borrowing light.

Maybe people survive

by borrowing love."

​

I pretended to sleep.

​

Just so I could watch you.

​

The scratching of your pen.

​

The scent of paint.

​

The quiet holiness of a woman

creating beauty

while the universe held its breath.

​

I believed there would be

thousands more nights.

​

I was wrong.

​

Death does not ask permission.

​

It does not care

about unfinished paintings,

half-filled notebooks,

or futures still unfolding.

​

It does not care

how deeply someone is loved.

​

One day,

you were here.

​

And then—

​

you weren't.

​

Now the apartment

is quieter than silence.

​

Your paintbrushes wait untouched.

​

Your notebooks remain closed.

​

The chair beneath the lamp

keeps its lonely vigil

for someone who will never return.

​

Still,

some nights,

I look toward that corner.

​

A foolish hope

lingers in the dark.

​

Expecting your sleepy smile.

​

Expecting your dimples.

​

Expecting you to lift a half-finished canvas

and ask,

​

"What do you think?"

​

And I would answer

the same way every time:

​

Everything you touched

became beautiful.

​

Even me.

​

People say

time heals.

​

I think they're mistaken.

​

Time does not heal.

​

Time teaches us

how to carry grief

without letting it fall.

​

So I carry you.

​

In sunsets

you would have painted.

​

In poems

you would have loved.

​

In every act of kindness

because you taught me

how to be gentle.

​

And when the night grows quiet enough,

​

I imagine you somewhere beyond sight

​

painting another masterpiece,

​

writing another poem,

​

smiling that impossible smile,

​

those dimples appearing once more.

​

Waiting.

​

Until the day I find you again,

​

I will live the way you taught me:

​

borrowing light

from the memory of your love,

​

just as the moon

borrows light

from the sun.