The Weight That Keeps Me Here.

A love that never left, even when it was never mine.

It isn’t a sharp pain.

It’s like erosion – soft, and steady. Like water wearing down stone. You barely notice it at first, until one day, you don’t recognise the shape of yourself anymore.

You’re surrounded by the darkness of a cold, deep cave – the kind that muffles sound and steals warmth. There’s a light ahead. You can see it. It flickers just beyond the jagged walls.

It flickers just far enough to feel impossible, just close enough to hurt.

You want to move toward it, to feel the warmth again. But your heart… it’s heavy.

It holds you here.

In the quiet. In the dark.

Sometimes you lie to yourself and call it shelter.

You sketch futures into the cave walls, speak to ghosts, relive moments that never really belonged to you.

You find beauty in the shadows – because the shadows don’t leave.

And then something in the world tugs at you.

The way someone smiles. A song you’d forgotten. The scent of the rain when it hits a hot pavement.

Tiny, cruel reminders of what still lives in your chest. You weren’t ready for them. You never are.

There’s no funeral for what never had a heartbeat.

No closure. No clean break.

Just a quiet ache that moves in, unpacks its bags, and softens your bones.

And the hardest part?

Some days, you don’t even want to leave the cave. Because here, in the stillness, you can pretend. Pretend they knew. Pretend it meant something. Pretend it was real.

But maybe one day – not today, maybe not tomorrow – you’ll stand up, heart still heavy and walk towards the light without looking back.

Until then,

you breathe.

You wait.

You sit quietly,

still in the cave.