A~
You always arrive like dawn — softly, without permission.
You ask questions that don’t require answers,
and somehow that unsettles me.
I built walls of logic, plans, clean lines—
yet you step through them as if they were mist.
B~
I never meant to trespass.
I only saw the light leaking through your cracks
and thought — maybe there’s a heart in there,
beating quietly under all that precision.
A~
There is. But it prefers silence.
I learned early that emotion is best when it behaves.
Then you appeared, and every theory started trembling.
B~
You looked like peace, and I mistook it for belonging.
I wanted to stay long enough to hear your stillness speak my name.
But we were written in opposite directions—
you, a compass; I, a tide.
A~
Even tides leave patterns on the shore.
Yours remain.
They remind me that logic without warmth
is just architecture for ghosts.
B~
And your steadiness taught me
that love doesn’t always have to arrive in flames —
sometimes it just stands quietly in the doorway,
and that’s enough.
A~
If we meet again —
perhaps not as who we were,
but as what we learned —
I’ll still know your voice.
B~
Then let’s promise this:
when the next universe folds us close,
you’ll teach me stillness,
and I’ll remind you how to feel the wind.
Fragment 3 of not so many anymore | @darkjasm | #QuietStarSeries | Fictional conversation of exhibit A and exhibit B~
The DarkJasmine 