She learned
not to ask.

Not because she didn’t want,
but because wanting
never changed the outcome.

She existed
where leftovers go.
After the choice.
After the promise.
After the door closed.

She was touched
without being kept.
Known
without being named.

Affection arrived
in fragments.
Brief.
Careful.
Never enough to stay warm.

She learned the math of it.
How much silence equals interest.
How little she could take
and still call it something.

They came to her
when they were tired.
Hungry.
Unseen elsewhere.

She offered quiet.
No demands.
No light.

Love lived somewhere else.
With witnesses.
With plans.
With permanence.

She lived in the margins.
In the hours that don’t count.
In hands that never reached twice.

Scraps don’t bruise.
They numb.

And over time,
she became very good
at feeling nothing
and calling it peace.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All rights reserved.