They do not choose her.
Not really.

They orbit.
They linger.
They learn the shape of her availability
like it is something owed to them.

She is never the first call
but she is always the answered one.

There is a difference.

They come at random hours.
Unannounced.
Unpatterned.

A hollow afternoon.
Moments that belong to no one
so they give them to her.

She answers anyway.

She always answers anyway.

She gives in full measures.
Not pieces. Not fragments.
Everything.

Her laugh,
her time,
her body that softens when touched like it matters,
her heart that opens
as if this time it might finally be held with care.

It never is.

They take her in quiet ways.
In empty spaces between better options.

She is warmth without weight.
Connection without consequence.
A name that does not need to be spoken.

And when it ends
it does not end loudly.

It fades.
It thins.
It disappears into the familiar silence
of messages that stop mid-sentence.

She learns not to ask why.

Because she already knows.

If they return
and they always do, eventually
it is not for her.

It is for the ease of her.

The way she does not demand.
The way she does not ask for more.
The way she still opens
even after being broken
in the exact same places.

They do not miss her.

They remember her.

Like a door
they never had to knock on.

And she
still stands there

heart in her hands
like an offering
no one ever intended to keep.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All rights reserved.