Questions She Never Asks

  Some days I dress like closure. Other days, I dress like the question he forgot to ask. I wear colors he never noticed, just to imagine how he’d describe them now. I choose fabrics that feel like endings, soft but intentional. I pick cafés we used to avoid. Order what he loved. Smile at the waiter just long enough for ghosts to sip with me. I leave lipstick on the glass—not for style, but to mark absence with grace. I sit where the light hits just right, not to be seen, but to be remembered. I post at 3 a.m.—not because I’m awake, but because I want her to wonder why he isn’t. Do I want him back, or do I want him unsure? Do I crave peace, or ache for a chaos I finally control? Sometimes, the question is more seductive than the answer. Every unread message becomes an altar. Every deleted photo, a private ceremony. 🜃 Read Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin taught me that forgiveness and forgetting are rarely the same ritual. Sometimes I skip the reply not because I’m done, but becaus...