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“She doesn’t ask what broke me. She just shows up A mug of coffee in one hand, a wilted orchid in the other. The purple matches the bruise of the sky, sun bleeding out behind the hills. We sit with silence between us. She lets mine grow wild. Pours warmth into it without stirring. When I finally say “it still hurts,” she doesn’t say it’ll stop. She just shifts closer, like grief is a door she knows how to hold open without letting anything spill. The orchid rests between us on the table. One petal falls. She catches it. Says, “even the softest things learn how to let go.” And I believe her.” — Maimoona Abidi
She doesn’t ask what broke me.
She just shows up
A mug of coffee in one hand,
a wilted orchid in the other.
The purple matches the bruise of the sky,
sun bleeding out behind the hills.
We sit with silence between us.
She lets mine grow wild.
Pours warmth into it without stirring.
When I finally say “it still hurts,”
she doesn’t say it’ll stop.
She just shifts closer,
like grief is a door she knows how to hold open
without letting anything spill.
The orchid rests between us on the table.
One petal falls.
She catches it.
Says, “even the softest things
learn how to let go.”
And I believe her.