morgan lily

You held me like you were reading braille. Fingers slow, deliberate—each vertebra a letter, every ridge a word. Your palms pressed flat against my back, then curved inward, like you were preparing a map for your next expedition.

It creeps in slowly, almost imperceptible at first—a flicker of interest, then fixation. They lodge beneath the skin like a splinter, impossible to ignore. You replay their words long after they’ve left the room, dissecting tone, gesture, absence. Every silence becomes a puzzle. You’re no longer your own—your thoughts rewire around them, your attention hijacked by the possibility of their attention. It’s not love, not really. It’s hunger with a velvet face. A kind of beautiful rot that softens the edges of reason. You know the imbalance, the desperation it breeds. But still, you linger in the waiting. Still, you ache to be seen by them in the way you’ve already imagined.

Go into your bathroom. Set up some cozy, warm candles. Run yourself a hot bath. Add some bubbles, petals, anything that makes you feel happy - luxurious. It’s cold in the rest of the room. Settle into the tub and relax. Be free. Breathe in. Feel the warmth of the water caress and cradle your body. Enjoy it. Stop. Pull the plug. The candles blow out. The room is pitch black now, the water in the tub is slowly draining, and each inch of your body is getting colder and colder by the second. You’re alone. Cold. Nothing is holding you. You begin to feel your heart race and your cold, wet hair is rolling droplets of ice cold water down your back. Your emotions fade away. Numb. You try to turn the faucet back on but nothing is streaming out. It’s stuck. Your mind is cycling now. You step out of the tub. Naked. Vulnerable. You run to the door, twisting the handle, trying to escape. The door is locked. You’re stuck in this dark, cold, lonely room. You run to the window, hoping to find a glimpse of light. Nothing. Just a dark forest that haunts you, yet calls your name. You want to explore. You crawl out of the window, escaping into the deceitful greenery. You find yourself walking deeper and deeper into the woodlands - until you stop. You look around, hoping to see a trail that will take you back home. You’re lost. Naked. Vulnerable. Lost. You begin to recklessly run through the trees, searching for any sign back - nothing. You keep running, running, running, and you fall. You fall into a hole. It’s filled with black mud and cold rainwater. You try to claw your way back up but it’s too deep. You’re stuck.

Somewhere a small barefoot girl waits by the door, cheek pressed to cold metal, eyes aching from watching people she loves walk away. She memorizes the sound of leaving— keys jingling, a sigh too long, a silence too clean. She doesn't cry anymore— not out loud. Just folds herself smaller, smoother, sweeter— like the paper wore thin from all the letters she never sent. She counts the ways she might make them stay: quieter, prettier, less hungry, less real. And God, this healing— this gentle reparenting— teaches her to uncurl her fists, to stop bargaining with her own worth. That the ones who leave were never hers to keep. And the ones who stay don't ask her to shrink.

I send you a text. A test, really. Something small, harmless on the surface—a question, a link, a joke I know you’d like if you wanted to like me back. I watch your phone light up with it. I watch the message flash across your screen, my name right there, undeniable. You swipe up. You don’t even hesitate. You see it. You see me. And then you put the phone down. No reply. No glance back. You ignore me in real time, like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing.

I think maybe this is what silence sounds like when it's trying not to cry. We've said everything, or at least everything we dared to, which is never the same thing. You look at me like you're already somewhere else, and I keep hoping you’ll say, “just kidding” and pull me back.