Through the Fog

Tag: heartbreak

  • The Weight of Maybe

    Maybe that’s the hardest word

    I know.

    Maybe you loved me.

    Maybe you didn’t.

    Maybe things would’ve worked

    if the timing was different,

    if we were different,

    if life had been kinder.

    Maybe.

    It’s a word

    with no ending.

    A hallway

    that never reaches a door.

    And I’ve spent years there.

    Walking back and forth

    through old conversations,

    old mistakes,

    old versions of events

    trying to find an answer

    hidden somewhere

    inside the wreckage.

    But maybe

    isn’t an answer.

    Maybe

    is the place we go

    when the truth hurts too much.

    The place between acceptance

    and denial.

    The place where hope

    goes when it doesn’t know

    how to die.

    And I’m tired

    of carrying it.

    Tired of giving possibilities

    more power

    than reality.

    Because reality is this—

    some things happened.

    Some things ended.

    Some people left

    without explaining why.

    And no amount of maybe

    will change it.

    So tonight

    I’m setting it down.

    Not because I understand.

    Not because I’m over it.

    But because uncertainty

    is a heavy thing

    to drag through life.

    And I’ve carried it

    long enough.

    Maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe—

    for once—

    I don’t need to know.

  • Heart of Stone

    They say I’ve got

    a heart of stone—

    like I woke up this way,

    cold from the beginning,

    untouched by anything

    that ever tried to reach me.

    But stone

    isn’t born hard.

    It becomes that way

    through pressure,

    through weather,

    through years

    of standing in storms

    with no shelter.

    People see the surface

    and stop there.

    They don’t see

    how many times

    I tried to love softly,

    how many times

    I opened my hands

    just to watch

    everything good

    slip through them.

    So I learned.

    Learned how to close off

    before something

    could get close enough

    to ruin me again.

    Learned how to act indifferent,

    how to keep my voice steady,

    how to pretend

    nothing touches me anymore.

    But pretending

    and feeling nothing

    aren’t the same thing.

    Because even stone

    remembers pressure.

    Even stone

    can crack.

    And underneath

    everything hardened in me—

    under the distance,

    the silence,

    the walls I built

    to survive—

    there’s still a heart there.

    Just one

    that got tired

    of bleeding

    every time

    it tried to be soft.

  • Chasing Echoes in the Dark

    I’ve been chasing echoes

    in the dark—

    old voices,

    old versions of love,

    old wounds

    that still know

    how to call my name.

    Reaching for things

    that aren’t there anymore

    but somehow

    still feel close enough

    to touch.

    That’s the cruelty of echoes.

    They sound real.

    Familiar enough

    to make you turn around,

    to make you wonder

    if maybe this time

    something lost

    found its way back.

    But it never does.

    It’s just the sound

    of what already happened

    bouncing off empty places

    inside you.

    And still—

    I chase it.

    The memory

    of what was said.

    The silence

    of what wasn’t.

    The version of people

    I keep rebuilding

    from fragments

    because the truth

    feels harder to hold.

    Maybe I’m not chasing them.

    Maybe I’m chasing

    who I was

    before they became

    an echo.

    Before everything meaningful

    started sounding

    like distance.

    But the dark

    doesn’t return

    what it takes.

    It just teaches you

    how easy it is

    to mistake loneliness

    for something calling you home.

  • Fuck You

    Fuck you—

    for the silence,

    for the half-truths,

    for making me feel crazy

    for noticing

    what was right in front of me.

    Fuck you

    for acting distant

    while still keeping me close enough

    to hope.

    For every mixed signal

    you dressed up like confusion

    when really

    you just didn’t want

    to let go

    or fully stay.

    And maybe

    that’s what hurts most—

    not that you lied,

    not even that you left—

    but that you let me

    keep believing

    there was something here

    worth fighting for

    while you were already

    halfway gone.

    I replay it sometimes—

    all the moments

    I should’ve walked away,

    all the times

    my gut knew better

    but my heart

    kept overruling it.

    So yeah—

    fuck you.

    Not because I still want you.

    Not because I need revenge.

    But because I deserved honesty,

    and you gave me confusion

    instead.

    And now I’m stuck

    untangling the damage

    from something

    you couldn’t even admit

    was breaking.

  • If You Were Dead or Still Alive

    If you were dead

    I think I’d know how to grieve you.

    There’d be an ending—

    a line I could point to

    and say

    that’s where you stopped existing

    in my world.

    I’d cry

    in ways that made sense.

    I’d miss you

    in ways people understand.

    There would be flowers.

    Silence.

    A kind of permission

    to let you go.

    But you’re not dead.

    You’re somewhere—

    breathing,

    living a life

    that doesn’t include me.

    And that’s the part

    no one prepares you for.

    How do you mourn

    someone who still wakes up?

    Who still laughs,

    still says your name maybe—

    just not the way they used to?

    You exist

    just far enough away

    to feel unreachable,

    just close enough

    to keep hurting.

    There’s no ceremony

    for this kind of loss.

    No clear ending.

    No final goodbye.

    Just the slow, quiet ache

    of learning

    that someone can be alive

    and still be gone.

  • Whatever Makes You Happy

    Whatever makes you happy—

    even if it isn’t me.

    Even if my name slowly fades

    from the places you once said it softly,

    like it mattered.

    I’ll stand back and watch you choose a life

    that doesn’t include my hands,

    my voice,

    my late-night honesty.

    I’ll pretend it doesn’t bruise

    to see you light up

    in a room I no longer enter.

    I wanted to be the place you rested,

    not the lesson you learned from.

    I wanted to be the reason you stayed,

    not the reason you grew brave enough to leave.

    But wanting has never been the same

    as being enough.

    So I’ll love you in the quiet ways—

    the ways that don’t ask for proof

    or promises.

    I’ll love you like distance loves memory:

    without interruption,

    without reward.

    If happiness finds you somewhere else,

    I won’t chase it down

    and beg it to look like me.

    I’ll swallow the ache,

    fold it neatly into my ribs,

    and call it grace.

    Just know—

    letting you go isn’t easy,

    and it isn’t clean.

    It’s choosing your peace

    over my longing,

    over the version of us

    I carried longer than I should have.

    Whatever makes you happy—

    I hope it holds you gently.

    I hope it sees you the way I did.

    And if you ever wonder

    why I disappeared so quietly,

    it’s because loving you meant knowing

    when to step out of the way.