She built a box,
not out of wood,
but restraint.

Placed it high,
where even longing
had to strain to reach.

Inside,
she folded him carefully,
like something sacred,
like something forbidden.

Every feeling pressed flat
so it would fit,
so it would stay quiet.

She knows
she is not supposed to feel this.

Knows the shape of wrong,
the weight of it,
how it settles in her chest
like something that will not dissolve.

He does not love her,
not in the way her bones understand.

He offers her words,
polished and distant:

“Respect.”
“Cherish.”

Words that hover
just above the place
where care should live,
but never land.

Never soften.
Never claim.

And still,
she keeps him.

Keeps the echo of him,
the almost,
the nearly,
the never.

She tells herself
she understands her place,

even when he denies it,

because denial is kinder
than the truth she carries:

that she was never meant
to be held,

only contained,
only kept,

like something useful,
like something quiet,

like something that learns
to ache
without ever being touched.

And still,
that box remains,

heavy,
waiting,

filled with a love
she will never be allowed
to take down
and open
in the light.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All rights reserved.