Dried flower

Maybe I’m not the one you were meant to keep. I’ve always been meaning to say that maybe we were never meant for each other. In a room just for the two of us, I was the only one speaking, my words echoing like confessions swallowed by empty walls, like a voice that even you couldn’t hear. If we ever meet again someday, somewhere, will we smile and laugh at everything that once broke us? I guess I don’t want to cry anymore after you fall asleep, dreaming of conversations that never happened. Your voice, your face, your awkwardness— I convinced myself I hated them. Like a dried flower, I hoped my days with you would lose their colors, until I couldn’t feel them anymore. I’m glad it wasn’t you in the end, so you won’t hurt me again, you, who now stands beside someone else. I hope it’s going well for you. I really do. But still, your voice, your face, your awkwardness… maybe I like them after all. And like a dried flower, they too will fade into something soft, something I can hold without breaking. The feeling of love still lingers quietly in my chest, so I place the flowers that haven’t wilted yet deep within my heart, and keep our memories where they can live freely, without hurting me.