Fragments of Cassandra

We were children first.
Best friends before we ever became lovers.
You knew the shape of my laughter
before you ever knew the shape of my body.

And then life carried us
in different directions for years,
until somehow the universe folded in on itself
and brought you back to me again.

Older now.
Softer in some places.
More wounded in others.

But when we found each other again,
it felt immediate.
Like no time had passed at all.
Like my soul recognized yours
before my mind could catch up.

I loved you quickly.
Completely.
Like someone finally returning home
after wandering too long in unfamiliar places.

And for a while,
I truly believed you were it.

The person I would marry.
The person I would build a family beside.
The person I would grow old with
in all the ordinary little ways that matter most.

So we left everything behind.
Packed our lives and promises into boxes
and crossed state lines together
toward a town neither of us knew.

No family.
No friends.
Just us.

And I remember feeling excited.
Terrified, but excited.
Because loneliness feels smaller
when you believe someone is holding your hand through it.

But somewhere along the way,
the warmth inside our home began to disappear.

Not all at once.
That would have been easier to survive.

It happened slowly.
Quietly.
Like watching sunlight leave a room
without realizing how dark it has become
until you can no longer see your own reflection.

You stopped looking at me.
Stopped speaking to me
like I was someone you still wanted to know.

And somehow we became strangers
while sleeping inches apart.

That was the loneliest part.

Not the screaming.
Not the fighting.
Not even the separation.

It was waking up beside someone I loved
and realizing I could no longer reach them.

I think the strangest part of grief
is how familiar it can feel.

Because when the distance started growing between us,
something inside me almost relaxed.

Not because it didn’t hurt.
God, it hurt.

But because some broken part of me
had already been here before.
Already knew the sound
of love leaving quietly.

And when it finally ended,
there was relief tangled inside the devastation.

Relief that I finally had an answer.
Relief that I could stop begging myself
to believe things were still alive
when I could already feel the silence rotting them from within.

Now the house feels cavernous.
Heavy.
Like grief has settled into the walls themselves.

And the person I once called my soulmate
now feels like someone I dreamed up
during a softer lifetime.

Sometimes I look at you now
and feel absolutely nothing.

And that is the part that terrifies me most.

Not anger.
Not heartbreak.
Not even longing.

Just emptiness.

Like I am floating outside my own body,
watching two people who once loved each other
become ghosts standing in the same room.

Because I used to love you
so fiercely
I could hardly breathe when you left the bed at night.

And now I can look directly at you
without my heart moving at all.

How terrifying it is
to survive the loss of someone
you once believed would be part of your soul forever.


Be’ahava,
Cassandra