Broken but beautifully

I reach for people like a hand in the dark— warm for a moment, then suddenly empty. Interest slips through me like water I cannot hold, and I never quite know when or why it leaves. I have shared this body like a borrowed room, opened doors to countless names, yet none stayed long enough to feel like home. The ones I loved— or thought I did— were echoes, not anchors. They never lingered, never answered the quiet ache I carried. So now I stand still, tired of chasing reflections in unfaithful mirrors. Maybe all that’s left is to believe— in time, in silence, in myself. To wait without breaking, to focus without losing, to gather the scattered pieces and call them mine again. And sometimes I wonder— what would the boy I was ten years ago see if he looked at me now? Would he recognize the cracks, or the strength it took to keep standing through them? Maybe I am broken— but not empty. Maybe I am lost— but not gone. And maybe, just maybe, this quiet rebuilding is where I finally begin. Rk Soham kaushal