your apartment looked different.
quieter.
less cluttered.
but still you.
white sneakers by the door.
four pairs.
maybe five.
a painted guitar by the window
with chipped color and your name on the strap.
but no man's shoes.
no cologne in the air.
no keys on the counter that weren't yours.
i stared longer than i should.
and asked,
"do you still live with your boyfriend?"
you didn't flinch.
just smiled.
"we broke up."
my stomach flipped.
"why?"
"he cheated on me."
that was it.
no tears.
no shaking voice.
just a sentence
like it didn't still echo in your bones.
i cursed.
"what a fucking dick."
my voice sharp.
hot.
trying to fight a man i've never met.
but then it hit me.
i was standing in your house.
after months of lying.
after years of silence.
with a girlfriend waiting at home.
and i thought—
am i better than him?
am i really the guy
who gets to be mad?
who gets to comfort you
with the same hands
that never fully reached for you?
you smiled again.
offered coffee.
like you didn't just let me see
the softest wound on your chest.
and i sat there,
with your heartbreak in my hands,
wondering
why i always showed up
too late.