almost midnight.
your eyes were tired,
but you stayed.
we shared a cigarette,
passing it like a secret.
black coffee in chipped mugs.
the night too quiet to ignore
what was unsaid.
"do you believe in marriage?"
i asked.
you nodded,
without thinking.
"yeah.
not now. maybe in four years.
if i ever meet the guy."
you laughed.
but it sounded like hope.
raw. unfiltered. you.
you turned to me.
"why are you asking me that?"
i sipped my coffee like it could save me.
shrugged.
smirked like it didn't mean anything.
"just curious."
"do you?"
you asked.
and i said—
no.
like it was the truth.
like i hadn't imagined you
in a grey dress
walking down some aisle
i told myself i didn't want.
the lie sat heavy on my tongue.
but i smiled.
you nodded.
we let the silence breathe.
you talked about wanting a partner
who laughs during Sunday laundry,
who writes songs with you,
who stays.
i stared at the ashtray.
at the smoke.
at the space between us.
and thought—
if things were different,
maybe it could've been me.
but i didn't say that.
i just lit another cigarette.
and let the moment burn.