The Weight of Unsent Messages

The light fell just so, didn't it?
Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams and for a moment I wondered if he’d called. He doesn’t call.
I trace the line of my collarbone with a fingertip, remembering how his hand felt there—a phantom heat against skin, a ghost of intention.
We built castles on shared playlists and late-night texts; flimsy things, easily washed away by the tide of morning reality. I still have those songs saved. And every message he sent.
Each word is a small stone in a carefully constructed monument to what wasn’t.
I should delete them. Erase the evidence of this quiet ache.
But then again, maybe not. Maybe some ruins are worth preserving—a reminder that even endings can be beautiful in their own way.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler