mosche

Sometimes love isn't butterflies, but gnats, buzzing annoyingly over something that's already dead. Everything seems to be going according to plan: Monday, the screen is cracked, words don't come together, hands are hidden somewhere between napkins and memories. And it seems like you want to hug, but it's easier to just leave quietly, take off your sneakers, and not wake anyone up - not him, not what once fluttered inside.

Relationships turn into a ritual of maintaining calm: not to scare away anxiety, not to reveal anger, not to admit that it's hard together, but scary alone. The night drags on viscously, thoughts buzz, and the only honest feeling is fatigue from pretending. Because even when it seems that you can't do without him, it's still a little easier without him.