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Is it too much to ask for the guy i like to like me back?

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A comet streaks across the sky, its flame swallowed by the vast black. It burns, but no one holds their breath to catch it. It falls — and becomes nothing, nothing but a smudge on the edge of a map no one looks at.

The river rages beneath the bridge, its currents pulling against the weight of stone. No one stops to watch. No one notices how the water shatters against the rocks, only to rebuild itself in silence, perfect in its imperfection, but still not enough to be called beautiful.

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The tears come, saltborne phantoms with no names— they slip from my eyes like ghosts uninvited to their own funeral.

A rift splits the air, thin as a hairline fracture in a porcelain mind. Nothing shatters, but everything aches.

Something stirs— a bird caught in the attic of my ribs, beating its wings against the ceiling of reason.

No answers grow in this soil. Only silence blooms, wide-mouthed and yawning, swallowing my words before they learn to speak.

And still, I write— hands like pale spiders threading grief through keys, unsure if this is a spell or a scream.

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i wipe the dust with my tongue.

it’s been centuries, or maybe just two years, since i licked your name off the attic walls and swore i’d never say it again. i buried you in a closed book, tied its spine with threadbare hope, promised myself i wouldn’t reread. but i do. i do. god—i do.

there’s a man who loves me like sunlight does flowers. gentle, kind. he traces me like i’m porcelain, and never once did you hold me like i’d break. but do i miss you? i do. every crooked laugh, every careless cruelty. your ghost sleeps beside me more often than he does.

sometimes i feel insane— to ache for a boy who probably doesn’t even remember the shape of my name. (or maybe—maybe—you think of me too, in that quiet way i think of you when the world is loud.)

you never left. not really. i carry you in the marrow of my ribs, and even with his arms around me, i taste you in the silence.

i love him—i really, really do. but not the way i loved you. not the way i still look at your photos like they might open their mouth and speak to me.

you are not mine. not even in the way a dying man whispers a stranger’s name. and still— i posted the photos. i dropped the breadcrumbs. i hoped, god i hoped, you’d come home. you didn’t.

but here i am. loving you still, like an old wound that refuses to scar.

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I did not know what love was. Not in the way it empties you gently. Not in the way it teaches your bones to stay.

Before you, love was a theory— dusty, unread, something other people touched but never handed to me. I watched it through glass, pressed my face to it. But I never held it. Not really. Not until you.

And since you— oh, since you— even the arguments have felt sacred. Even the silences had shape. We stumbled, yes. We bruised each other with careless midnights. But I never thought to leave. Isn’t that the cruel magic? That someone can hurt you and still feel like the safest place.

You brought me flowers once. They died. Fifteen days of my mother nagging. Throw them out, she said. They're dead, she said. But they weren’t. Not to me. I held on. God, I held on like that rose still pulsed. I kept it. Pressed it flat like a secret I didn’t want to lose. It's still there. Somewhere between pages I don't open anymore. Still red, still fragile. Still you.

With you, I found the permission to exist softly. Loudly. Wrongly. All of me. Without apology. I found my hands weren’t too much. My silence wasn’t too heavy. I wasn’t a burden— just a girl with bruised knees and hope beneath her tongue. And you— you let me in. You let me stay.

So maybe this is love. Not the fireworks. Not the screaming violins. But the quiet. The staying. The small, almost-unnoticed miracle of being seen and still being wanted.

And how would I have known? No one ever taught me what love was. No one ever gave it to me until you.

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Love looks pretty on u.

My hair smells like cigarettes burnt down to their spines, like your cologne fading into my skin, like the flowers you bought me— petals bruised at the edges, drowning in stale water.

It has been five days, and I am still unpeeling you from my body, still finding your touch in the marrow of my bones. Your touch lingers—ghostlike, fever-warm— in the spaces between my fingers, in the curve of my spine. I swear, I still feel your hands in my hair, your breath pooling in the hollow of my throat.

Time is syrup-slow without you. Nights stretch long and moon-drunk, and I trace the shape of your name against the pillow, whisper it into the dark like an incantation.

Tell me—do your hands still ache for me in the quiet? Does your skin still burn where I kissed you last? Because I have memorized you like scripture, etched you into the marrow of me.

I love you like a fever, like a prayer, like something written in the stars before we ever touched.

And even now, even here, I am yours.

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tongue bitten, love soured to ash

Time gnaws at the bones of me, splitting sinew from skin, wringing out the marrow, until I am only a shadow, stretched thin, a moth-wing memory dissolving in dusk.

It bends me, breaks me— spins me backward through hollow halls where my name is a dead echo, a thing I once knew, now swallowed by the gaping mouth of yesterday.

And here I stand, hands bloodied from burying what I swore to keep, ribs caged around a heart that flinches at the sound of its own pulse.

I am made to spit out honey, to call it poison, to unlove the light that once felt like home— and the mirror, brittle with frost, laughs as it forgets my face.

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The body learns to fold, a famine stitched between ribs, a house with no tenant, hunger folding into hunger until even the walls taste of dust. But this is not about hunger, is it?

I count the gaps where sound used to be, trace the ghosts of fingerprints on doorframes, watch the moon peel itself apart, thin and thinner— a sliver, a scar, a whisper of what it once was.

They speak in fog, in echoes, in hands that do not fit, but the air still hums your name, a song half-swallowed, a hymn unraveling in the throat of an empty room.

Come back and silence it. Or don’t— but tell me, at least, why the walls still lean toward the place where you used to stand.

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The moth flutters, drunken on lamplight, singing its wings into cinders— a lover of the burn, not the warmth.

You are the open window, the dusk-heavy air, the hush before the storm swallows the sea. Soft hands, steady hands— but oh, I have never longed for stillness.

You tell me I am whole with you, but I was never meant to be whole. I was meant to splinter, to bruise, to kneel before an altar of absence.

His name lives under my tongue, a thorn pressing into raw pink flesh. Your name is a whisper on an empty street— kind, patient, almost holy, but never quite enough.

My ribs collapse at the thought of absence, while yours sit beside me, waiting, waiting.

They say the river chooses the gentler shore, but what of those who drown for the taste of salt?

I know—I know— the world tilts toward kindness, but my heart is a locked room, and the key rusted in his hands.

Let me wade into the dark alone. let me shatter where no one watches. where longing sharpens its teeth on my skin. Better to be devoured by ghosts than cradled by a love that does not set me on fire.

To be loved is not the same as to ache, and I have only ever known the latter.

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Wrap poison ivy around my throat, wind it tight, thread it through my veins, until I am swallowed whole by green, until not a single inch of me remains for your eyes to name.

Push me into the well— but oh, the stones are thirsty, cracked, hollow as the love that once filled your palms. (Did I dry up, or did you?)

Leave me to the ocean, let the tide tangle me in its fingers— but you forget, don’t you? The waves know my name, the salt sings me lullabies. Unlike you, the sea never spits out what it swallows.

Let the snakes slip into my marrow, drain me drop by drop until there is nothing left to take.

Let my bones crumble to dust, light as the breath you refused to waste on me.

But oh, wait— you’ll come, won’t you? Unravel the ivy, siphon the venom, piece together the ruin.

You always do.

only to watch me writhe, only to watch me beg, You press life into me

only to remind yourself that even in ruin, I am still yours to break.

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I don’t understand why affection makes people complacent. Why does kindness turn into something expected, something overlooked? Yesterday, you were gentle—today, you treat my love like it’s owed. Why is it so hard for people to simply be kind?

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I am not here to string pretty words today. No metaphors, no poetic flourishes—just a raw, aching truth gnawing at my insides. I am in my sophomore year, drowning in my final exams. Yesterday was English, and time slipped through my fingers like sand, cruel and indifferent. It wasn’t my best. Not even close. It should have been perfect—could have been perfect—but it wasn’t. And now, I expect nothing.

My senior called. I picked up, but all I could do was sob. I cried until my throat burned, until words were a foreign thing I no longer knew how to form. Because I worked. I worked until my bones ached, until exhaustion seeped into my skin, and still—I made mistakes. And all I could see, behind the blur of my own failure, were the faces of those who believed in me, waiting, trusting, expecting. And that thought alone is enough to split me open. The weight of disappointing them sits heavy in my chest, something sharp and unrelenting.

But I suppose that’s how life bends, twisting when you least expect it. You don’t always get what you earn, what you bleed for. But that doesn’t mean you stop. That doesn’t mean you stay on the ground after the fall, no matter how much the impact rattled your bones. You stand. You keep standing. And you work—harder, fiercer, with something unbreakable humming in your veins.

Science is next. I don’t know if I’ll piece myself back together in time, but I have to try. I will try. And maybe, just maybe, this time, I’ll get it right.

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I think I like you best when you're just mine, Your smile—night-blooming cereus (something rare, something suffocatingly beautiful).

Oh, how I’ve spoken of it, a thousand times—

And I, a cactus—dry, brittle, a thing that should not be.

But how could you love— a wound like me? How could you care— for thorns like mine?

But you do, oh, how you do.

My eyes, dark as coal, like cigarettes burnt to the stub— but they burn like suns when you’re near.

Are you an opioid? Or the liquor I drown in— (so bitter, so consuming, so endless).

How it exhausts me to watch you nurse a grave, hold the smoke, cradle the flickering flame— (Does it burn you, my love?)

Why are you so kind, so kind? Kinder than the diamonds I wear, (They wilt; they lose their fire beside you).

Why do you pour color into something so dark, so endlessly dark?

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My Instagram account only exists Because I don't think you have my phone number Or if you did, you wouldn't use it Because that would mean you would reach out Which would mean you think of me Which I know you do, here and there Not enough to do more than like post I only share for you If I delete my Instagram account I would essentially delete you That is the problem with social media It paints a picture of you as my friend, which you aren't But I say happy birthday to you (I think you have forgotten mine) You say Merry Christmas to me once in a blue moon So my account stays up, I check it That way we don't become strangers completely

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Every moment spent with him feels like a scene pulled straight out of a film, like Geet and Aditya but more real, more intense. There’s this feeling—when our eyes meet, when his smile makes everything around me fade, it’s like the world becomes ours, and nothing else matters. He’s my calm in the storm, my steady anchor, while I’m the one who brings the chaos, the laughter, the spontaneity. He balances me, makes me feel like I belong. And in his presence, I feel like I’m truly myself—raw, unfiltered, but cherished. It’s like a love story unfolding in the most beautiful way, one I never want to end.

He’s the stillness in my storm, The calm to my wild, restless form. Like Aditya, quiet, composed, While I’m Geet, chaos enclosed. He’s the anchor, steady and true, I’m the whirlwind, always anew. In his silence, I find my peace, In my noise, his worries cease.

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You know, there are days when the air turns to tar Time gnaws at itself, a slow animal, each second stretching like sinew, refusing to snap. There is movement, a world turning, but the body is an echo—limp, unmoored. Everything hums in its rightful place, and yet— somehow, the bones do not fit the skin. (Nothing, nothing is right.) ~Bhavika (lost version)