You Live and You Burn

The end doesn’t arrive—it seeps in. She feels it in the way his hands lose curiosity, in the pauses that stretch too long, in the hollow rhythm of bodies going through motions that used to mean something. That last night isn’t passion—it’s muscle memory, a quiet, aching reenactment of something already dead. She studies him in the dark like evidence, memorizing flaws she used to excuse, the distance he pretends isn’t there. When it’s over, the room feels stripped—sheets tangled, air heavy, nothing sacred left to protect. She lies there, wide awake, skin buzzing with the wrong kind of awareness, realizing she gave her softness to something that only knew how to take. By morning, there’s no scene, no closure—just a clean, surgical detachment. She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t break. She gets up, gathers what’s hers, and leaves behind everything that wasn’t.