The One Who Stayed

I stand beside you every day,

but you look for me

through the shadows left by everyone else.

A hundred hands let go of yours,

and now mine feels weightless,

as if love can no longer prove itself

unless it arrives in a crowd.

I tell you I'm here.

I answer every late-night silence.

I gather the pieces you drop

without asking who broke them.

Still, you look at me

like I'm another goodbye

waiting for the right moment.

I watch you drift farther from yourself,

a shoreline swallowed by fog,

a familiar face fading

behind a stranger's eyes.

And it hurts in a way

I don't know how to explain:

not because you're leaving me,

but because you're leaving you.

I wish you could see

that not every door closes.

Not every promise rusts.

Not every heart grows tired

of carrying someone else's storm.

But betrayal teaches cruel lessons.

It turns trust into a language

you can hear but no longer understand.

So when I say,

"I won't leave,"

you hear the echoes

of everyone who did.

And I stay.

Not because I know how to save you,

but because I love you enough

to keep lighting a candle

even when you swear

there is no fire left to find.

I only hope that one day,

when the noise of all those abandoned yesterdays

finally quiets,

you'll notice what never changed:

that while others turned their backs,

I was still here,

calling your name

through the dark,

waiting for you

to find your way home to yourself.