woven into the very fabric of my being

There’s an album in my phone with your name on it, a collection of glimpses of you, ready for those times when I know I won’t see your face for a while. But when that time comes, I can’t bring myself to look. All of a sudden, the empty space I begged not to grow only expands, widening as I stare, as I let it. My longing feels endless.

You’re there in every pause, in the quiet corners of my mind, lingering like a whisper I’m too afraid to speak out loud, a memory waiting to come alive. I catch glimpses of you through the fog of memory, and each one hollows me, gutting whatever remains, until my heart feels raw and exposed. Sometimes, I feel as if my longing is spilling over, like red on porcelain tile at your feet, staining everything, impossible to clean. And I’d rather let it bleed than ask you for anything more.

I wish I could be selfless, be someone better, so I could scream at the world that you exist— that you are here, and that is more than enough. Really, it is. I tell myself I’ll miss you quietly. After all, dawn always comes. But still, a part of me wishes that when you return for that scarf you’d stay, even just a moment longer.

It’s as if the less I think of you, the stronger your presence grows, filling the spaces I didn’t even know were empty. You’ve become the silence I can’t fill, the void I can’t escape, echoing louder until I surrender, letting you seep into every part of me, filling places you already own. You’re here. Always here. Woven into the very fabric of my being, a part of me now, forever just out of reach but always, always present.