"It’s been years," he starts,
his voice lighter than the weight
we carry between us.
"Still haven’t found her yet,"
he laughs, but it crumbles midway.
"The one I could wake up to,
every single morning,
and feel something real."

I sip my coffee, swallow the ache,
"Maybe you’re looking too hard,"
I say, smiling the way you do
when you’re afraid of breaking.
"Sometimes, she’s right there,
in the spaces you don’t notice."

"Or maybe," he muses,
eyes catching the dim light,
"I had her once."
And the words hang heavy
in the space between his breath
and my heartbeat.

I look away, pretending to notice
the world beyond the window—
the people moving past us,
each of them a story
that isn’t ours.

"You’ve had a few since then,"
I remind him, gently as I can,
but he...