ωнαт уσυ ∂σηт ѕαу

The hallway chokes on broken glass. She stands fragile in thin white, head bowed like she's apologizing to the floor, dark hair slipping loose, eyes lost in the muddy water that holds nothing whole. In every jagged shard, he’s still there, arms crossed, half in shadow, one eye catching light like it remembers her name.

So close in the mirrors. So gone in the room.
The words burn up her throat: “Why does your absence still weigh more than your presence ever did?” They rise, sharp as the glass, then fall back, swallowed again. Her shoulders curl in, trying to hide the hole where love used to live.

The corridor drips. The mirrors keep multiplying her pain, his distance. No one speaks. No one steps forward. Just the slow seep of water, and underneath, the ache that never quite quiets. The sound of silence. & what I Should have said