Perhaps there was an error in the blueprint,
some quiet flaw folded beneath her ribs,
a door drawn without a handle,
a room built for no one to enter.

She was given hands that knew how to hold
and a heart that mistook leaving for ritual.
Everyone who touched her left something behind,
but no one ever stayed to claim it.

There were always signs.

An empty chair facing her own.
A second pillow untouched by morning.
Her name fading from the mouths
that once made it sound like a promise.

She learned not to question the pattern.
Some things are born beneath a dark star.
Some creatures are made to wander,
mistaking shelter for home.

Still, she opened whenever someone knocked.
Still, she let warmth cross the threshold,
knowing every flame eventually remembers
it belongs somewhere else.

They called her strong
when she stopped reaching after them.
They never saw the graveyard of almosts
she carried beneath her tongue.

At night, the house settled around her
like something alive and familiar.
The walls never promised to remain,
yet somehow, they always did.

Perhaps loneliness was not the punishment.
Perhaps it was the purpose.
The one thing shaped precisely for her,
waiting before she ever arrived.

And somewhere beneath the ache,
beneath every hand that loosened its hold,
a terrible certainty continued to breathe:

She was designed to be alone.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All Rights Reserved.