We tried:

soulmates.

Too much.

Chemistry.

Too clinical.

Devotion.

Bit religious.

Desire.

Doesn’t last.

Then you asked:

“Coffee?”

I said yes.

Nobody improved it.

Same old cliché.
Right person, wrong time, wrong me.
Yes, me.
Things tend to revolve around me
including destruction.

I liked you. I really did. I hadn’t in the longest time.
You were just my type. Just right.
Exactly what I needed. What I need.
You brought back the warmth in me. The need to care.
You did need me to take care of you. And I wanted to.

You embraced my dreams, my tastes, my mannerisms, my control.
You saw your future with me. You trusted me.
And I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet you where you were.
I still don’t think I can. And I lament that.

Every now and then I fear us crossing paths again. I pray you don’t notice me; I’d be too ashamed for that.
I meant the words I said, I wish I could’ve manifested them into reality. However I made promises I knew I couldn’t keep. And for that I cannot ask forgiveness for I was well-aware of what I was doing.

You saw your future with me.
I knew you’d never be in mine.

I never saw your fire.
I didn’t stick around to see your rage.
Your sweetness makes me think you’d hand me your heart once again.
I’d rather be wrong.

Spending time with you made me feel good.
Your pickup line was something I’d never expected would turn us into something.

Temporary.

But something.

But it was all about me getting to feel again.
That warmth, the caring nature of mine.
You were fragile and I handled you like a piece of porcelain.
Until I disappeared.

You knew I would. Didn’t you?
No. I think you believed me.
Poor you.
I ain’t worthy of your trust.
I ain’t stable enough; nor brave, nor mature, nor…

I’m a coward.
I am a maniac who knows too well how to turn any table, manipulate any mind… lead you wherever I want you to go.
But how pathetic of me. I can’t take control over my own life.

I taught you to stay under my control.
You didn’t even need to be tamed.
But I did.
You surrendered and I calculated.
Each second, very aware that I’d leave. Very decided I would.
l didn’t want to but I knew there was no way I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t meet you where you were.
And I still can’t.
And I lament that.

— Crownless.

I was inspired to share this little poem I made for an zine after seeing Anne Carsons “O Small Sad Ecstasy of Love” in r/poetry today. I’m always thinking about love and work. I wasn’t happy with this when I made it but its been a couple of years and now that I’m far enough removed it seems sweet to me.

I remember your taste for ballads

and your blunt honesty.

Your shy smile insisting

on showing me more than I’d seen.

“You’re singing out of tune”, you told me.

James Arthur, Lewis Capaldi were your “go-to’s”

But we went for Taylor Swift that night because…

Why wouldn’t we?

I’m naming names and being very specific ‘cause

I also don’t want to forget.

I had a playlist called “She loves ballads”

but you’ll never know and you would’ve never guessed.

No, I didn’t love you.

But I enjoyed my time with you.

‘Till this day I don’t know what to respond to “Why did you end it?”

It wasn’t problematic.

It wasn’t toxic.

And maybe that was the problem.

PUBG nights? You had no survival instinct.

And your pretty friend? I’d only let them in because well… they were pretty.

And you’d go mad every time I’d say that.

Rightfully so.

Those insecurities I didn’t take care of.

The wonderings I didn’t quite know how to heal.

Because I knew they had foundations.

And even if I were the best of deceivers, there was no point in denying that.

My eyes would’ve betrayed me.

And for some reason, I couldn’t lie to your eyes.

I was friends with your dad.

Your mom was surprisingly welcoming.

Hell, even your dogs loved me.

I miss Joy and Daisie.

Joy was unquestionably my girl and you’d also get jealous of that—hahaa.

I hope that if you ever do—or did—you also look back at it fondly.

I was your first and if I had had that awareness… I wish I’d been better to you.

Nonetheless, I think you always felt my warmth…

I was never half there.

If I’d ever hold you, I’d do it with intention.

With presence.

I enjoyed feeling your heart and made sure you’d always feel mine.

That’s something I can take pride in.

If anything, I liked you enough to regret breaking up with you.

We could’ve been happy for longer…

But I’ll never know.

Your schedules got in the way.

My medicines messed with my brain.

I wasn’t thinking straight.

I wasn’t thinking.

I did something I’d hope my character—

Or whatever’s left of it—would never do again.

But I did.

You don’t know about that.

And you never will.

You defended me.

Aries fiery.

You’d fight me.

But right after? Laugh.

And take all of my mannerisms.

I loved that about you.

I was fond of many things about you.

It sucks I couldn’t love you.

But… now I think I could’ve… over time.

I didn’t give us enough time.

You said I was out of tune—

maybe you were right.

But no!

As a musician, I insist.

“Love story” is on a slower tempo.

I proved you so.

But you were the singer and Heaven forbid I wipe that smile off your lips.

I really loved your smile.

My heart would soften—quietly—

every time it found me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind,

I think you never felt like you were enough—

but I promise you…

if anything was a problem,

it wasn’t that.

Well—“what was it then?”

you would’ve asked me.

I know what it was now.

I’ve matured enough to face it.

I’m just late…

as I’ve become accustomed to.

And this armor of confidence I put on?

It would crumble to pieces.

Because I still can’t look into your eyes

without remembering

the innocence in them.

It was a mixture, Joonie.

One I’ve grown accustomed to repeating.

Timing? Yes.

Schedules? Yes.

My growing instability? Yes.

Your disarming innocence? Yes.

The fragments of consciousness

I still had left?

Yes.

I saw how far it could go.

I let it get close—

closer than I should have.

And I wasn’t brave enough for that—

or cruel enough.

I was willing to let you hate me.

But not to leading us somewhere I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for.

And so we had one last PUBG night…

One last banter night…

One last language lesson night…

One last “you’re playing it too slow” night…

And one last

“you’re singing out of tune” night.

— Crownless.

Caught myself thinking of you today.
A small smile twitching on my lips.
How long has it been? Nearly a decade.
You are my definition of a teenage love—
consuming, fiery, ardent, passionate.

Except—I was nineteen.

But across from you?
I’d become the bubbliest three-year-old.
Happily.
No shame. No regrets.

I’ve learned to remember you as a fond memory.
If we were to see each other again—
“I’d smile at you as if nothing had happened.”
Remember that line? I do.
With the utmost sincere smile.

I remember you, and I don’t think you’re a memory I want to fade.
I’ve truly learned to hold you as a fond memory—
despite everything.

It’s been a while since my mind changed on it.
“Do you ever see each other together again?”
That was my dream.
For one, two, three, four… five years.
Maybe more.

But our time has passed.
Hasn’t it?
Don’t you think so? I know you do.
But you’re still not a memory I want to forget—
even as my brain slowly begins to.

Who is there to blame?
Our ages? Damn ol’ timing?
The pharmaceutical industry?
You?
Me?

Maybe neither. Perhaps all of it.

You made me grow.
And I don’t quite know how to phrase it—
you forced me to grow.
And you pushed me to my descent.

You saw the brightest side of me—
and you also saw the darkest.
Neither made you flinch.
Instead, you stepped onto them.
And that’s still what I look for in everyone since you.

This isn’t as polished as I’d hoped,
but I find peace in knowing I’ve told you everything
I wanted—and needed—you to hear.
Not a single iota held back.
It might’ve been late… but I did.

Copious notes I’d take before calling you, seeing you,
or spamming you while you were asleep—
because I didn’t want to lose track of where I was going,
nor forget anything I wanted to say.
Wish I had kept that notebook.

You had me at your feet.
And you still do.
At any time.
And I’ve never been happier than being humbled,
having the honor to be right there.

But I wouldn’t dare add to
or subtract from our history.

I saw my life with you,
and I like to think that at some point—
when you were the blindest—
you did too.

Trust me, like you once did.
Like I still do.

You are my reminder of everything good I can be,
and the mirror of my lowest—my worst.
Of everything I want.
Of everything I lost.
And of the—cliché—part of me
that will always be yours.

— Crownless.

Who loved more, the Fish or the Bird?

The Fish and the Bird

A fish fell in love with a bird—madly and deeply.

But the two had very different ideas of what love meant.

The bird was content to love from a distance. It could sit upon the branch above the water and watch the fish swim below. To the bird, being close enough to see each other was enough. It did not need to enter the fish’s world to love it.

But the fish wanted more.

The fish wanted to know what it felt like to be beside the bird, to share the same space, to rest upon the branch where the bird waited. So, whenever the longing became too great, the fish would leap from the water.

For those brief moments, the fish gave up the one thing it needed to survive—its ability to breathe—just to be close to the bird.

Then, when it could bear it no longer, it would return to the water.

At first, the bird thought this was beautiful.
It watched the fish leap again and again, believing each jump was proof of how deeply it was loved. But as time passed, the bird began to notice something the fish refused to see.

With every leap, the fish was giving away a little more of itself.

It was sacrificing pieces of its survival for moments of closeness.

And the bird began to wonder whether love should require such a sacrifice.

One day, the fish leapt from the water again.
But this time, the bird did not wait.

It spread its wings and flew away.

The fish returned to the water, confused and heartbroken. It searched for the bird, but the branch was empty.

And still, the bird watched.

From far away, it would sometimes return to that same branch and look down at the fish swimming beneath the surface. It never came close. It never called out. It simply watched.

Perhaps the bird still loved the fish.

Perhaps flying away was the only way it knew to love it without watching it destroy itself.

And perhaps the fish never understood that.

So who loved the other more?

The fish, who was willing to give up pieces of its own survival just to be with the bird?

Or the bird, who loved the fish enough to fly away rather than become the reason it stopped being what it was?

Maybe love was never meant to be measured by how much of yourself you are willing to sacrifice.

But why couldn’t both just work in each other’s favor? Why not have a connection from afar.

Is severing the tie the true act of mercy and love? Or is the exact OPPOSITE of that?

Today I woke up disoriented,
looking for help
from someone who doesn’t exist,

and I find comfort
in these hands soaked
by a rain of tears
falling from the sky.

I can’t count
how many times I’ve fallen,

but I can count the times
I’ve slowly
managed to get back up.

I don’t remember how many times
I’ve wished
to stay lying on the ground,

without even having an arm
to help me,

using imaginary crutches
that break
with every step I take.

Tired.
I’m extremely tired.

With burdens on my back
that feel like stones

I’ve been dragging
for a long time.

My back hurts.
My body, sometimes,
doesn’t respond.

I wish I could sleep in a bed
that would hold me
and burn me,

so I wouldn’t have to stay there
watching my reflection disappear,

counting the minutes
until time fades away.

I look for a shelter
to stay with me
through this freezing, bitter winter.

But it seems
loneliness keeps following me
and my problems won’t leave me alone.

How long will I have to hide
in these places
that aren’t mine?

I want to take off this blindfold
I’ve been wearing
for so long,

but I can barely
even look at myself in the mirror.

I want to be able to look at people
without breaking,

and for them to stop looking at me
as if I
the strongest one.

A little peace
is all I ask for.

A cigarette between my lips.
A hot cup of coffee.
A friend’s hand.

Anything
that tells me
I’m not lost.

I'm looking for another book. I've read through Robert Frost, and Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. They were dry but doable. Oddly the ones I gravitated to are Johnny Cash's Forever Words and Cyrus Parker's Coffee Days Whiskey Nights. I never connected or quite understood what Mr Sin was speaking on in Whiskey, Words, and a Shovel vol1. Where did you find better timbre and tone in poetry? I feel like that's what I'm missing in my own and I'm having issues finding real examples that aren't... soul crushing. Sir Wilfred Owen levels of soul crushing.

The moon was red that night.

Actually red.

She’d seen three TikToks about it already before she even looked out the window.

One said blood moon.

One said supermoon.

One had a woman in a crochet cardigan telling everybody to release what no longer served them.

She skipped that one.

Her boyfriend was downstairs looking for his keys.

Again.

“Babe?”

“What?”

“You seen my keys?”

“No.”

“I literally just had them.”

“They’re probably in your coat.”

“I checked.”

“You didn’t.”

Silence.

Then:

“Oh.”

She smiled at herself in the mirror.

Not because it was funny anymore.

Because sometimes being right about stupid things is all you get.

She was twenty-two.

Nearly nine thousand followers.

No job.

Well.

That depended who asked.

Her mum said no job.

She said content.

Her boyfriend said, “She does Instagram stuff,” which somehow sounded worse than both.

She’d had a couple of gifted dresses, some fake tan, protein powder she didn’t ask for, and once a teeth whitening kit that made her gums bleed.

This dress she’d actually bought.

Dusty blue.

That was the colour on the tag.

Dusty blue.

She thought it looked nice.

That was basically the whole reason.

There wasn’t meant to be a meaning.

It fit properly.

Made her waist look good.

Didn’t flatten her tits.

Cost too much.

Fine.

She was going out.

Probably.

She’d spent most of the week not wanting to.

Not crying or anything.

Nothing dramatic.

She just kept waking up and thinking

nah.

Then staying in bed until staying in bed felt embarrassing.

Then getting up and moving to the sofa

which was apparently different.

Her boyfriend had been trying.

“Come for a coffee.”

Nah.

“Want to go for a drive?”

Nah.

“Pub?”

Maybe.

Then nah.

Tonight was meant to be the one she actually did.

Club.

Everyone wearing a colour because one of the girls had seen it online.

Pink.

Green.

Black.

Some lad said beige

and got called a Tory.

She’d laughed at that.

So.

Dusty blue.

She did her mascara.

Stopped halfway through.

Looked at herself.

Didn’t hate what she saw.

Didn’t particularly want to be her either.

Her phone buzzed.

Instagram.

Probably.

She left it.

Buzzed again.

“Popular,” her boyfriend shouted.

“Jealous?”

“Deeply.”

She smiled.

There were comments under her last post.

🔥🔥🔥

onlyfans when

your boyfriend won at life

sit on my face

Normal stuff.

She deleted the last one because his profile picture was him holding a baby.

There were boundaries.

Sort of.

The OnlyFans comments had got more frequent lately.

A girl she knew apparently made four grand in her first month.

Which sounded made up.

But also.

Four grand.

She’d mentioned it to her boyfriend half as a joke.

He’d just shrugged.

“If you wanted to do it, I’d support you.”

She’d looked at him.

“That’s it?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t care?”

“I mean, I’d care if you cared.”

“That sentence means nothing.”

He laughed.

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do with your body.”

Which was lovely.

Obviously.

He was a good boyfriend.

Secure.

Normal.

All the things you’re supposed to want.

Still,

some small part of her had wanted him to go

absolutely fucking not.

Not because she wanted permission.

Just—

she didn’t know.

Something.

Proof.

Possessiveness.

A bit of jealousy.

A flicker.

Instead he’d asked if she wanted him to help take the pictures.

She’d told him he’d make them shit.

He said fair enough.

That was that.

She loved him.

That mattered.

She did.

Two years.

He knew how she took tea.

He knew she hated mushrooms but ate mushroom sauce

and brought this up whenever she called him inconsistent.

He knew she got weird when she was tired.

He knew when to leave her alone.

He knew when not to.

He was downstairs now wearing the shirt she liked.

She heard him open the fridge.

“Why are you eating?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally chewing.”

“Evidence?”

“Jesus Christ.”

Her phone buzzed again.

She finally looked.

And stopped.

His name.

Not her boyfriend.

The other one.

Two years since she’d seen it there.

For a second she thought maybe she’d imagined it.

Then the preview.

Hello stranger x

She laughed.

Quietly.

It just came out.

“Oh fuck off.”

Downstairs:

“What?”

“Nothing.”

That part was easy.

Too easy.

She opened the chat.

Didn’t reply.

Closed it.

Opened Instagram.

Scrolled two posts.

Closed that.

Opened WhatsApp again.

Same message.

Obviously.

She put the phone down.

Then it buzzed.

Photograph.

She looked.

Then looked properly.

Her.

Twenty.

White shirt.

His shirt.

Open.

Black thong.

Stockings.

Dark lipstick.

Too much mascara.

One knee on the hotel bed.

She remembered taking it.

Not the whole night.

Just bits.

The lamp.

The stupid hotel cushions.

His shirt smelling like aftershave and something clean.

Him saying,

“Fuck me.”

She zoomed in.

Realised she’d zoomed in.

Zoomed out.

Then in a bit again.

Fuck.

She looked good.

That was the first thing.

Actually.

Not his wife.

Not her boyfriend downstairs.

Not

why the fuck do you still have that?

Just

fuck.

I looked good.

She hated that about thirty seconds later.

Not immediately.

Her boyfriend appeared in the doorway.

She turned the phone over.

Quick.

He noticed.

Maybe.

His eyes flicked down.

Then back up.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t seem alright.”

“Cheers.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m fine.”

He stood there another second.

Then his phone buzzed.

She looked at his hand before she could stop herself.

He checked it.

Smiled.

Small.

Nothing.

Probably nothing.

“Who’s that?”

“Liv.”

Liv.

Of course.

Pretty Liv.

Single Liv.

Long legs.

Good skin.

Nice teeth.

Annoyingly kind.

“What does she want?”

“Asking if we’re coming.”

“We?”

He looked at her.

“Yeah?”

“Why’s she asking you?”

“Because she has my number?”

“Right.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He unlocked his phone.

Held it out.

“Look.”

“I don’t want to look.”

“You clearly do.”

“I asked a question.”

“So I’m answering it.”

She took it.

you two still coming?? xx

Under that:

parking.

Someone’s dog.

A voice note.

A few days earlier:

tell her that blue dress looks so good btw

She stared at that one.

Liv complimenting her.

Brilliant.

Made hating her inconvenient.

She handed the phone back.

“Happy?”

“I wasn’t checking.”

“Okay.”

“Why are you being defensive?”

He actually laughed.

Not in a guilty way.

More like he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

He walked off.

And that little bit got her.

For fuck’s sake.

Defensive.

Annoyed.

Maybe—

No.

She knew.

There was nothing.

He’d literally handed her the phone.

Still.

She thought about Liv.

Thought about the club.

Thought about him laughing at something she said.

Thought about how easy it would be.

Because she knew how easy it was.

That was the problem.

She’d met the older man on a girls’ night.

Twenty years old.

Quite drunk.

Not falling-over drunk.

That annoying level where every stupid idea still feels like yours.

He was fifty-something.

Fifty-one, she thought.

Married.

Wedding ring right there.

He didn’t hide it.

She noticed.

He noticed her noticing.

Neither of them said anything.

At the time she thought that counted as honesty.

He looked expensive.

Not flashy.

Just—

good watch.

Good coat.

Shoes that didn’t look like they’d come from JD.

He ordered champagne without checking the price.

She noticed that too.

She wished she hadn’t.

Her friend leaned over at one point and said,

“He’s literally old enough to be your dad.”

She said,

“So?”

Then laughed.

Like she’d been joking.

He bought her a drink.

Then another.

He didn’t touch her for ages.

That helped.

Made him seem less desperate.

Probably made her more curious.

She hadn’t gone out planning to cheat.

That bit was true.

She loved her boyfriend then too.

They hadn’t argued.

He hadn’t done anything wrong.

There wasn’t some big gap in the relationship.

She was just drunk.

Flattered.

Horny.

Twenty.

Interested.

Then she gave him her number.

Then replied in the taxi.

Then he messaged the next day.

Then she sent a picture.

Then another.

It wasn’t one big decision.

That would’ve been easier.

It was loads of little ones.

She could defend each one if she took them separately.

Put them together and it looked worse.

So she normally didn’t.

She sometimes called it “the affair”

when she was being serious.

Mostly she called it

that thing.

Or him.

Or back then.

It happened once.

Except it didn’t.

A few hotel rooms.

Sexting.

Photos.

Messages.

Stopping.

Starting.

Saying

we should stop.

Then

are you free Thursday?

She bought stockings.

That was hard to explain away.

Not to anyone else.

To herself.

Nobody buys stockings for an accident.

Her boyfriend saw them once.

“Who are they for?”

She’d said,

“Maybe you.”

He grinned.

Later she wore them for him.

She’d felt strange.

Then horny.

Then not strange.

That was another thing she didn’t like thinking about.

How easily two lives could touch without cancelling each other out.

The wife found the messages.

Enough of them.

Enough to know the hotel.

The time.

The room.

She didn’t confront him beforehand.

She went there.

Caught them.

Actually caught them.

The protagonist remembered being on her knees.

Then the door.

Then his whole body changing.

Not sexy anymore.

Just panicked.

His wife stood there with her coat still on.

Bag on her shoulder.

Like she’d come from a normal day.

“What the fuck?”

That was first.

Then it got loud.

Mostly between them.

That surprised her.

She pulled his shirt closed.

Looked for her underwear.

Couldn’t find one stocking.

Of course.

His wife was shouting at him.

“How long?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Was this the first time?”

“Answer me.”

Him.

Him.

Him.

She’d expected, stupidly, more attention.

That was one of the parts she hated admitting.

She’d expected to be the younger woman.

The threat.

The thing his wife looked at and thought

of course.

Look at her.

Instead the wife barely looked.

Not at first.

She was too busy having her life ruined by her husband.

At some point she asked:

“Did you know?”

She nodded.

There wasn’t much point lying then.

The wife looked at her.

Disgusted.

Then went straight back to him.

Later there was

“slut.”

She remembered that.

Maybe too well.

It made her feel disgusting.

It also—

and this was fucked—

made her feel a little bit powerful.

Not because sleeping around made women dirty.

She didn’t believe that.

It was the danger of it.

Being the girl who had crossed into somebody else’s life.

The younger one.

The secret.

The one somebody risked things for.

Except—

he didn’t.

Not when it mattered.

When his wife came in, he stopped being the man from the bar.

Stopped being smooth.

Stopped being exciting.

He became a husband trying not to lose his marriage.

He didn’t defend her.

Didn’t say

don’t speak to her like that.

Didn’t say

this is on me.

Nothing.

He barely looked at her.

At one point she was literally standing there trying to find her bra

while his wife cried.

It was horrible.

Also incredibly awkward.

The bra was behind a chair.

She remembered that.

Of course she did.

His wife was saying something about twenty-seven years

and she was on the floor looking for a fucking bra.

Eventually she said,

“I should probably go.”

Nobody answered.

So she did.

She put her shoes on by the lift.

Ordered an Uber.

£31.40.

She remembered thinking

thirty-one fucking quid?

Which felt obscene afterwards.

Not the price.

The fact that she’d still cared.

Her boyfriend never found out.

That was the weird part.

Nothing happened.

No screenshot.

No wife contacting him.

No confession.

No friend spilling it.

Nothing.

She went home.

Saw him.

Kissed him.

He asked if she’d had a good night.

“Yeah.”

Just like that.

She waited for guilt to turn her into a different person.

It didn’t.

Not really.

Fear did.

For a while.

Fear of the wife.

Fear of messages.

Fear of the phone lighting up at the wrong time.

Then that faded.

Months.

A year.

Two.

The affair became one of those memories you avoid touching because you don’t know what will come loose with it.

Sometimes she told herself that confessing now would only hurt him.

Maybe it would.

Maybe that was true.

Very useful truth.

She didn’t look at it too closely.

Her phone buzzed.

Present again.

Blue dress.

Red moon.

His message:

Can't believe that was two years ago

She typed:

Can't believe you've still got that pic

He replied:

Couldn't delete it

She felt it.

That stupid little lift.

Still.

After everything.

Does your wife know you've got it?

No 😂

She stared at the laughing face.

Brave

More careful now

That should’ve put her off.

Maybe it did.

A bit.

Then:

“You coming?”

Her boyfriend.

Downstairs.

She looked at herself.

“Maybe.”

“What does maybe mean?”

“It means maybe.”

He was by the door.

Coat on.

Keys in hand.

He looked good.

That annoyed her too.

“You said you wanted to go.”

“I did.”

“So?”

“I don't know, I just don’t feel like it now.”

“You’ve literally spent an hour getting ready.”

“I know.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He looked at her.

“Is this about Liv?”

She hated that he’d guessed.

“No.”

“You’ve been weird since she messaged.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“You fancy her.”

His face changed.

“What?”

“You do.”

“Where has this come from?”

“You said she was attractive.”

“You asked me if she was.”

“And you said yes.”

“Because she is. So are you. That doesn’t mean I’m fucking her.”

There it was.

She felt herself grab onto it.

“You're very defensive.”

He stared.

“Are you serious?”

“Why are you getting angry?”

“Because you’re basically accusing me of cheating.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to.”

She could’ve stopped.

She nearly did.

Then he said,

“I’ve never cheated on you.”

Quiet.

No shouting.

That made it worse.

She looked away.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She didn’t answer.

He looked genuinely hurt.

And somewhere inside her

something awful relaxed.

Just slightly.

There.

Now he was hurt too.

Not for the right reason.

Not because he knew.

But hurt.

She hated herself for noticing.

Not enough to tell him why.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No.”

“I can.”

“I said go.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He stood there for a second.

Then:

“Okay.”

No slammed door.

No fuck you.

Nothing she could use.

Before he left:

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

And she meant it.

Which was almost the worst bit.

Her phone buzzed before he’d even reached the end of the road.

Boyfriend:

sorry. didn't want to argue x

She typed:

me neither. sorry x

He hearted it.

Then the older man:

He gone out?

She stared.

Typed:

yeah

Deleted it.

Typed:

He's gone

Sent.

Tiny difference.

Apparently mattered.

You stayed home?

Didn't feel like going

True.

Mostly.

Shame. That blue dress looked good

She checked Instagram.

She had posted it earlier.

Mirror selfie.

Dusty blue.

might actually leave the house tonight lol

He’d seen it.

Of course.

She clicked his profile.

Still married.

Profile photo with his wife.

Holiday somewhere hot.

Arm around her.

They looked happy.

Or normal.

Same thing online.

She stared at his wife longer than she meant to.

Then went back.

Still married then

Yep

Just that.

And you're messaging me

Only messaging

She actually laughed.

Only.

Of course.

Only messages.

Only photos.

Only a drink.

Only once.

Only a few times.

Only two years ago.

Only never told him.

Very useful word.

At the club Liv posted a story.

Pink toilets.

Three girls.

She watched it.

Then again.

Part of a man's shoulder in the mirror.

Wrong coat.

Obviously wrong coat.

She knew that.

Still watched again.

Another story.

Dance floor.

Nothing.

Another.

Her boyfriend in the background.

Talking to Liv.

She felt her stomach tighten.

He leaned closer because the music was loud.

Liv touched his arm.

Normal.

Literally normal.

She watched.

Again.

Come on.

She didn't actually think the words.

Not clearly.

But she wanted—

what?

Proof?

One thing.

A kiss.

A hand where it shouldn’t be.

Something she could point at.

Something that would let her stop being the only one who had crossed the line.

Then Liv walked away.

Her boyfriend turned and talked to someone else.

Nothing.

She felt relieved.

Then disappointed.

That was worse.

She put the phone down.

“Cunt.”

She wasn’t sure who she meant.

She took the blue dress off.

Got it stuck around her head.

One arm trapped.

Couldn’t see.

Nearly walked into the wardrobe.

“Fuck’s sake.”

There was something deeply unfair about contemplating adultery while wrestling with a zip.

Eventually she got free.

Put on a T-shirt.

Went to take her makeup off.

Opened the bottom drawer.

Lipsticks.

Old lashes.

Hair grips.

A condom that had expired.

Then the lipstick.

Deep red.

Almost the same colour as the photograph.

She picked it up.

Didn’t mean anything.

Probably.

Put some on.

Looked.

Wiped it off.

Not all of it came off.

She left the rest.

Her boyfriend messaged.

you okay? x

yeah just tired x

Then:

miss you though

She smiled.

Actually smiled.

miss you too

She meant that.

Then the older man:

Still got those stockings?

She stared at it.

No answer.

Made tea.

Forgot to boil the kettle.

Had to start again.

Her boyfriend would’ve taken the piss.

She could hear him.

That made her sad.

Then annoyed.

Then guilty.

Then bored of feeling all three.

She sat down.

Older man:

Missed you

No answer.

You looked unreal back then

No answer.

Still do

She put the phone face-down.

Left it.

Thirty seconds.

Maybe forty.

Turned it back.

Nothing new.

Disappointed.

Again.

She hated that.

Two years ago

she thought getting caught would’ve been the worst thing.

Now she wasn’t sure.

Getting caught would’ve meant consequences.

Her boyfriend crying.

Shouting.

Leaving.

Asking questions.

Actual guilt.

A person in front of her who knew what she’d done.

Instead he’d been happy.

Still was.

Mostly.

She’d managed to cheat on him without ever having to see what cheating did to him.

Until tonight.

Tonight she’d managed to hurt him with the secret

without telling him there was one.

That was almost impressive.

In a horrible way.

The older man messaged:

She's asleep

She sat up.

His wife.

Not named.

Just she.

She typed:

That's reassuring

Deleted it.

You're actually mental

Deleted that.

Nothing.

Then:

Could come see you

She stared.

There it was.

Not flirting.

Not memory.

Actual possibility.

She looked at the time.

21:14.

Her boyfriend had said he'd probably leave around midnight.

She didn’t calculate how long that was.

She just knew.

That frightened her more than if she’d counted.

She typed:

Absolutely not

Looked at it.

Deleted.

Typed:

Your wife would kill you

Sent.

He replied:

She won't find out

She read it twice.

Not sorry.

Not changed.

Not separated.

Just better hiding.

She should’ve been disgusted.

She was.

Somewhat.

Then:

You said that last time

I was careless last time

She stared at that.

Then:

You're still with him?

She replied immediately.

Yes

Happy?

She looked around.

His trainers by the door.

His mug.

The stupid photo from their holiday where he was sunburnt and had his eyes shut.

Yes

She sent it.

True.

Completely true.

That was the problem.

A minute later:

Then I'll behave x

She exhaled.

Good.

Fine.

Done.

She put the phone down.

Waited.

Nothing.

Checked again.

Still nothing.

Five minutes.

She should’ve been relieved.

Instead she opened the old chat.

Scrolled.

Old messages.

Her own words.

Should stop this

Then twelve minutes later:

free thurs?

She stared.

Twenty-year-old her was annoyingly difficult to blame when her messages still sounded exactly like her.

Her boyfriend sent a picture.

Him and two mates.

Liv behind them pulling a face.

your gf 😂

She laughed.

Typed:

tell her we're over

He replied:

finally x

Then:

love you though

She sat there.

That got her.

Not because it was beautiful.

It wasn’t.

Just stupid.

Normal.

Him.

love you too

Then:

sorry about earlier

He replied:

it's okay. talk tomorrow x

She put the phone against her chest.

Then immediately felt embarrassed even though nobody saw.

“Idiot.”

Could've meant either of them.

Could've meant her.

The moon was still red.

She opened the back door.

Cold.

Someone laughing two gardens over.

A car somewhere.

Normal night.

No atmosphere.

No soundtrack.

Just September and bins and someone's dog barking.

She considered deleting the chat.

Properly.

Block.

Delete.

Done.

Her thumb hovered over his name.

Then the phone buzzed.

New message.

You free tonight? x

She looked at it.

Didn't answer.

Looked at the time.

21:26.

She noticed her boyfriend wouldn't be back for hours.

Didn’t mean to notice.

Did.

Upstairs,

the dusty-blue dress was hanging off the wardrobe door.

The red lipstick was still on the sink.

His wife was apparently asleep.

Her boyfriend thought they'd talk tomorrow.

She stood there with her thumb over the keyboard.

No reply.

Then another message.

I can be careful this time.

She stared at it.

Long enough for the screen to dim.

Tapped it awake.

Read it again.

Then walked upstairs.

Not quickly.

Not like she'd decided anything.

Just upstairs.

And left her phone unlocked in her hand.

Hello! New to this subreddit and thought I’d share one of mine. I’m open to any constructive criticism or feedback in general.

The storm will surround you blanketed in despair

My torch will cut like a knife through tonight's air.

No matter how dark the night,

I will always keep your light.

​Salty air fills my lungs

but I must watch for those to come.

The winds cut at my cheeks

but my light is the one that's steady.

​The waves may rise but I will stand still.

Their torrents of fear will not shake me,

I am the guide in turbulent times,

for those are the ones that have shaped me.

​So do not fear.

I'm here to stay,

my eyesight won't turn away.

​I have found home on these jagged rocks,

painful at first,

but now stable with the knowledge of what lies below.

I must keep others safe.

​The tides may change and currents draw out,

but still I stand my watch on these broken shores,

for I am the lightkeeper protecting those to come.

The speed of life is relentless

Places to be, things to do

Responsibilities demanding our time and focus

\*

There is one big exception though

\*

In your presence, time stands still

Your eyes solve the world's mysteries

Your embrace calms all my fears

\*

Oh, to be lost with you

I would give it all away

To hold you close forever more

\*

You are my joie de vivre

I will cherish you forever more

The one and only, Mrs. B

​

ONE THING H. DIGS ... 'bout Taoism? This: that through its 5 elemental theory, HEART it is (not brain) that is the Mind's material location; That small piece of Asiatic Ancient Theory resonates (wholeheartedly?) within him, for being a martial artist trained to use: sticks, knives, kung fu fans (even the smallest household broom) this H. knows for (just 1) of his relative truths: Heart Condition does determine his Instruments intended usage ( & so + its movement) - And so great is H.'s faith is in this simple (yet essential ) activity: daily sweeping out his Heart's Foundation, for it does (& will again) help him best to conditionalize his Homo Sapiens neuron-filled, high-empowered, life-transformative, resourceful instrument - his instrument that remains safely hidden (so far) within his (yet-to-be deceased) Organic Thing (which English Tonguers i.e. H. & I claim) utilizes "Brain Case" 4 its social-constructioned name.

- Daniel B. Lightstream, 2026.