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“The Dagger in the Heart You seem so calm, the sea before a storm, still in the hush before the waves arise. But then—a memory drifts through your mind, a fleeting touch of kindness long ago, the quiet smile of someone in a café, her laughter caught in sunlight, soft and bright. A yellow tulip, trembling in your hands, tucked in her hair, as golden as the dawn. An old slip of paper, edges curling thin, her number scrawled in ink now blurred with time— and all at once, the stillness breaks apart. Some words remain, though years have worn their sound, like daggers lodged too deep within the heart. They never twist, they never pull away, but linger there, a whisper in the dark, a wound unclosed, a shadow breathing near. No matter where you turn, they echo back, the syllables that cut and left their scar, a voice that lingers long after it's gone.”

“You once shared with me the essence of love: to prioritize another's happiness and fulfilment. Today, I honour that wisdom by choosing to step away. It's agonising to detach from someone who holds a piece of your heart. However, yearning or longing doesn't confer ownership. Eventually, you must let your heart endure the ache of parting, like a sunset bidding farewell to the day. It's frustrating how, even after letting go, thoughts linger and memories haunt—replaying what was, what could have been, and the regrets of should-haves. Yet, despite the agony, I release my grip because it's the kindest act I can offer. I love, and in love, I release. That, I believe, is the greatest gift I can give.”

“Perhaps Perhaps, one day, we’ll cross each other’s path, Not by design, but some strange twist of fate. You’ll glance, and I will feel the world go still. Your eyes will find mine—soft, unreadable— And in that gaze, my chest will tighten fast, A fluttered breath I cannot hold inside. I’ll wonder then, do you still see through me? That way you did, as if my soul were glass, No secrets veiled, no walls I’d ever built— As though my silence whispered all to you. I’ll stand there, caught between what was and is, A moment wrapped in quiet, aching heat. Old feelings, like a tide, will rise again, Beyond the grasp of reason or of will. I will not move, nor will I turn away, And yet, I will not speak. I’ll let it pass. But I won’t cry—not there, not in your sight. The tears, if any come, will wait till dusk, Or till the echo fades within my chest. I’ll walk away, alone, but not the same— Still holding something wordless, undefined. A hope, perhaps? Or just the ghost of it.”