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“Do you still feel it in some happy elsewhere, a quieter version of us sits cross-legged on the kitchen floor, arguing over groceries, your hand reaching for mine between apples and oat-milk. Sometimes, I imagine running into you as a stranger. Your eyes flicker with almost-recognition, like they remember the weight of my name in the dark. We smile, polite. You walk away. I fall in. I don’t know if the abyss was always meant to feel like home. But I keep its door half open just in case you ever want to return as someone new. Or worse as someone real.” — Maimoona Abidi
Do you still feel it
in some happy elsewhere,
a quieter version of us
sits cross-legged on the kitchen floor,
arguing over groceries,
your hand reaching for mine
between apples and oat-milk.
Sometimes, I imagine running into you
as a stranger.
Your eyes flicker with almost-recognition,
like they remember the weight
of my name in the dark.
We smile, polite.
You walk away.
I fall in.
I don’t know if the abyss
was always meant to feel like home.
But I keep its door half open
just in case
you ever want to return
as someone new.
Or worse
as someone real.