December 1713Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx3AsCSyXhK
They’re always talking about you. I turn the music up, trying not to hear, trying not to be devoured by their conversations. But they do it on purpose. The words creep in, hiding in the spaces between noise, only to attack me in the silences. And I notice the glances, the way they stare at me when they say your name.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKOXmyBztdQ
They talk about you with the cruel ease of those who know more than they should—or pretend to. The allusions come in a calculated tone, always treading the fine line between provocation and coincidence. I try to ignore it, but it’s hard. It’s hard to pretend this is normal, to pretend that your absence isn’t visible in me. We all pretend. But the truth seeps down my face, saturates my every gesture. Your absence doesn’t hide: it walks beside me, hangs over everything I do.
Why am I not with you now? Why don’t we walk together anymore? Silent questions echo in their eyes. They’re down there, talking about you, dissecting what we never shared but that, somehow, everyone seems to know. These are looks that question and, at the same time, declare certainties I don’t know the origin of.
And here I am, with the music blaring, trying to drown it all out. But the truth is, your absence screams louder than any sound I can bear.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEYZ2nIHbcT
