Iris was beautiful.
sharp. loud. bright.
the kind of girl who burns you,
then asks why you're hurt.
we'd been together for years.
too long to walk away quietly.
too broken to still call it love.
we didn't talk.
we argued, made out,
and slept in opposite directions.
we laughed at other people's jokes—
never each other's.
but I stayed.
I stayed because routine is a warm prison.
because starting over felt like setting myself on fire.
and then—
you.
you, with your black sweaters and shy anger.
you, with your slow voice and that guita
I pretended not to love.
you were real.
you were the version of me I forgot could exist.
and every time you looked at me,
I remembered what it felt like to be wanted without being consumed.
I wanted to leave.
I swear I did.
I rehearsed it in my head:
"Iris, I'm done."
"Hazel, it was always you."
but what if you laughed?
what if you just blinked and said,
"oh… Grey. I thought we were friends."
so I stayed.
with Iris.
in a room that kept getting colder.
in a life that never felt mine.
and maybe the worst part—
I let you believe I didn't care.
I let you walk away
thinking I never tried.