I tell myself not to hope—
but I do.
Every time.

Each silence stretches longer
than the one before,
like it’s learning how to hurt better.

I build moments in my head
where you come back,
say something simple—
“Hey,” maybe,
like it costs you nothing.
Like I didn’t wait for it
with everything I had.

But the door stays shut.
The street stays still.
And the night
keeps getting good
at pretending you were never coming.

I feel stupid—
for holding space for someone
who doesn’t even send a shadow.
For expecting
what you never said you’d give.

Still, I sit here,
quiet, tired,
with a heart too soft
to learn fast enough.
And the disappointment—
it’s not loud,
not dramatic.
It’s just heavy,
and mine.