Gravity Lost

I was staring at the floor,

counting the cracks like old regrets

when your shadow crossed mine—

not loud, not sudden,

just there,

like something I’d forgotten I missed.

You didn’t speak at first.

You just laughed at the dust

floating like lazy planets

between us,

as if the air itself had slowed

to watch.

We didn’t meet like movies tell you—

no fireworks, no background score,

just your shoelace half-tied

and a look that asked

more than small talk ever could.

My heart answered

before I had the words.

You said something about the rain

smelling like old books,

and I wanted to write

a novel in your voice.

Not about us—

about the way you look at things

no one else bothers to see.

That was before the shift.

Before silence curled between us

like steam leaving a cup—

not angry, not broken,

just drifting elsewhere.

I still remember

how your hand lingered

an extra beat

on my shoulder

like maybe you knew

you wouldn’t reach for it again.

And maybe that’s the magic

no one talks about—

not the falling,

but the being caught

in a moment

that changes nothing

and everything

in the same breath.

So I still sit sometimes,

feet flat on cold tile,

letting gravity pretend

it’s got me.

But I know the truth:

I’ve already floated,

once—

with you.