In Reality

In reality,
the cruelest wound is not the one that bleeds,
but the one that blossoms —
slowly, silently — in the heart.

It begins with warmth:
A gaze that says, "You're mine."
A touch that whispers, "I’ll never leave."
A promise wrapped in every heartbeat,
You are everything to me.

You build your world around that echo.
You breathe in their presence
like it's the air you were meant to find.

But then —
they begin to drift.
Not with storms or screams,
but with quiet steps
you barely notice at first.

They smile.
They hold your hand.
Yet the distance grows —
like a shadow stretching at dusk.

You reach.
They vanish.
You panic.
They return.

"I never left," they say,
and the sun rises in your chest again.

You bloom for them —
again and again —
believing this is love.

But each time they leave,
a part of you doesn’t come back.

You forget how to sleep without longing.
You forget how your laugh used to sound.
You begin to search for yourself
in the ruins of their affection.

Until one day,
you don’t scream when they disappear.
You don’t cry when they lie.
You just… exist.
Quiet. Empty. Unseen.

In reality,
this is how someone dies —
not in body,
but in soul.