#soft ache

I shouldn't even Be talking to you, bobby pin, I should just be able to Casually throw you away.

Why shouldn't I be able to?

You weren't mine to begin with; You weren't ever meant to stay.

No, don't even go there.

You're making my hand tremble. Stop giving yourself Weight.

You’re not just saying “I missed you.” You’re saying: ⋅ Did you feel it too? ⋅ Was the silence loud for you too? ⋅ Did you ever think about breaking it?

And sometimes, the ache isn’t even in the missing. It’s in the wondering: If they knew you would miss them, and chose to stay silent anyway. Or worse, if they missed you too… but waited for you to say it first.

So yeah. I want Buck to say “I missed you.” And I want Tommy to say “I know. I missed you too.” Not because he needed to hear it first, but because he felt it too. And maybe, just maybe, he was hoping Buck did.

all my love sits

in a small box

at the back of my mind

deep in the quietest part of my heart

i keep it there

where no one can reach it,

because pain taught me

to protect what remains.

so i sit in numbness

not because it’s empty,

but because it’s quieter

than searching for emotions

i was never taught how to name.

~Sinfullyruined

Yes, I like you.

But I also know where to stop.

I know my place, my limits,

and the line I shouldn't cross.

So I won't chase you,

and I won't confess or burden you with my feelings.

I'll simply admire you quietly,

from a distance.

Maybe one day these feelings will fade,

maybe they won't. But for now,

I'll let my heart feel-

without expecting anything in return.

Grief doesn’t always crash in. Sometimes it just sits there. Damp. Quiet. Undone.

Like laundry left in the washer overnight. You didn’t mean to forget it. You just got distracted. Or tired. Or thought someone else might get to it first.

But there it is in the morning— heavier than before. Carrying the weight of what you didn’t do, what you didn’t say, what you didn’t see coming.

And now it smells different. Not bad. Just… faded. Like something that was once clean but lingered too long in stillness.

That’s how it hits you.

Grief. In the coffee you forgot to finish. In the scarf you almost wore but didn’t. In the memory that rises during a grocery run because you passed their favorite snack.

It doesn’t slam. It drips. It waits. It curls around the back of your ribcage and reminds you: “I’m still here.”

You try to be grateful. To move on. To breathe like it doesn’t stick to your lungs some days.

But healing isn’t folding fresh towels. It’s pulling the weight out of the washer with wrinkled hands and deciding to run it again.

Even if no one sees. Even if it makes you late. Even if you cry while doing it.