Not all wounds bleed.
Some slip in like shadows, settle into bones, and whisper lies until you start to believe them. Lies like:
"This is normal."
"This is love."
"This is what you deserve."
He never raised his voice.
Never slammed doors.
Never said I wasn't enough.
But silence has a way of screaming when it lasts too long.
---
It started small.
A shift in tone.
A look that lingered a little too long.
A message left on read.
And suddenly, I was on edge all the time, replaying everything I'd said, wondering which version of me he wanted today.
He was still sweet—sometimes.
Still the boy who lit cigarettes with poetry and touched me like I was made of glass.
But more often, he was distant.
Sharp.
Unreachable.
---
"Are we okay?" I asked one night, my voice barely holding itself together.
He didn't answer. Just blinked slowly, like he was tired of the question.
Of me.
"I don't know what you want from me," he finally said.
And maybe that was fair.
Maybe I didn't know either.
All I knew was I wanted him to look at me the way he used to.
Like I was his favorite sin.
---
Days turned to weeks.
We stopped meeting on rooftops.
Stopped laughing at 2 a.m.
Stopped pretending the ending wasn't coming.
But I still loved him.
God, I still loved him.
In the way your hands still reach for a flame even after it's burned you once.
---
The last time I saw him, he said something I'll never forget.
"You broke me first," he whispered.
And I think that hurt more than any goodbye.
Because I'd spent so long blaming myself for every fracture…
I didn't realize I was bleeding too.