She does not know exactly when the breaking began.
There was no great collision, no single moment violent enough
to explain the wreckage. Just small fractures.

A silence where there used to be words.
A hand that stopped reaching. A place beside someone
that slowly stopped feeling like hers. Another moment of realizing
she had mistaken being wanted for being chosen.

Another person who could find her when they needed warmth,
comfort, laughter, softness, something easy to reach for,
but somehow never learned how to reach for her
when she was the one who needed something.

And somewhere beneath all of that, the first crack appeared.

She covered it well. She has always known how.
She smiled over it. Worked over it. Wrote beautiful things over it.
Held other people’s pain with hands already trembling
beneath the weight of her own.

But cracks do not disappear because no one notices them.
They spread quietly through the places where hope lives,
through every tender part of her that still believed someday
someone might look at all that she is
and decide she was worth the effort of staying.

Not visiting. Not reaching when lonely.
Not remembering her when convenient. Staying.

And God, she is tired of pretending that wanting that does not hurt.

She is tired of being strong enough to understand everyone’s reasons.
Their lives are complicated. They are busy. They have responsibilities.
They are tired. They have their own wounds.

She knows. She always knows.

She can explain every absence until it sounds almost reasonable.
But understanding why someone does not choose her
has never made it hurt less to remain unchosen.

So another piece loosens. Then another. And another.
Until she can feel parts of herself falling away
while she stands perfectly still, trying not to make a sound.

Because there is something humiliating about breaking
over things everyone else seems able to survive.

So she gathers the pieces. Of course she does.
She tucks them beneath her ribs and carries them with her.

She goes to work. She answers messages.
She laughs. She creates. She shows up.

And no one hears the tiny sound of another piece hitting the floor.
But she does. She hears every one.

And today she does not want to turn this into something beautiful.
She does not want to be told the cracks are where the light enters.
She does not want gold poured into the fractures.

She does not want a lesson. She does not want resilience.
She does not want to become stronger
because something else managed to hurt her.

Today, she is simply breaking.

And maybe the saddest part is that some small piece of her
is still standing among the wreckage, still listening for footsteps,
still hoping someone will notice she is falling apart
before she has to learn how to put herself back together alone.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All Rights Reserved.