anotha old one
still warm
sitting in class—
bored out of my mind—
when her friends turn to me.
they ask if i want her back.
and it sounds simple.
too simple
for something that already ruined me once.
so i don’t answer.
not because i don’t know—
but because i do.
and if i say it out loud,
it becomes real again.
and i’m not sure i can survive that twice.
so my words stay stuck—
somewhere between my throat and the air—
and then i blink.
and everything rearranges
like it’s been waiting for me to hesitate.
her friends are gone.
the desks—shifted.
aligned into something i recognize too well.
ethnic studies.
the air goes quiet—
not empty,
just… controlled.
like even sound knows where it’s allowed to exist.
there’s a sub at the front,
typing like she’s always been there,
like this room never belonged to anyone else.
and my desk—
it’s facing hers.
like the whole world paused
just to give me time.
just to let me decide.
like my answer isn’t permanent.
like i could still choose something different.
but before i can—
two cold fingers
pinch the back of my neck.
and my body reacts
before my mind can catch up.
because i know that touch.
i’ve always known that touch.
she never needed my name—
just that small pressure,
like she had a shortcut to me
no one else knew.
and then the finger wave.
small.
familiar.
unchanged.
like time skipped her entirely.
and she’s not walking in—
she’s not arriving—
she’s just there.
like she’s been there
this whole time
and i’m the one who’s late.
and she takes my hand.
and i don’t hesitate.
i never did with her.
she pulls me to the back of the class
and the floor sinks under us
like it’s not built to hold something this fragile.
but she’s talking—
god, she’s talking—
like she never stopped,
like the silence we left behind
never happened.
and i let her.
because i’ve missed the sound of her
more than i ever said out loud.
and her eyes—
they don’t stay still.
brown—
hazel—
dark—
like even they can’t decide
which version of her is real.
like i’m remembering her wrong
while she’s right in front of me.
and the walls start breathing—
in—
out—
too close—
too far—
like the room is trying
to keep us
and let us go
at the same time.
and then—
her hair flickers.
pink—
then orange—
then pink again—
like something is trying
to erase her
and failing.
and everything starts to slip.
her voice—
a second too late—
then rushing to catch up—
like it almost lost me.
her outline shakes—
edges softening—
like the world
can’t hold her shape anymore.
like she’s too much
for something temporary.
and i feel it—
that quiet panic—
like i’m about to lose her again
and this time
i can see it happening.
so i hold her hand tighter.
like pressure could fix it.
like if i just don’t let go
the dream won’t either.
and her hand—
her hand stays the same.
cold.
real.
familiar in a way
that hurts more than it helps.
and i think—
for a second—
maybe this time
it stays.
maybe this time
i don’t wake up to nothing.
maybe this time
i get to keep her.
and then—
i wake up.
and it’s quiet.
too quiet.
no breathing walls.
no flickering colors.
no voice trying to catch up to itself.
just my room.
just the ceiling.
just me.
and my hand—
i don’t move it.
i keep it exactly where it was
in the dream.
waiting.
like if i’m careful enough
i won’t scare it away.
but the warmth—
it slips.
slow.
quiet.
until there’s nothing left
to hold onto.
and my fingers—
they close anyway.
