There's a rhythm you learn to trust when two people begin folding into each other's lives. A softness that grows where once there were edges. A language without grammar, spoken in glances and shared silences.
D.K. and I had found that rhythm.
We didn't meet every day, but when we did, it was as if time held its breath for us. Our greenhouse hours became sacred: no poems, no performance, just presence. We wandered through green halls and peeling glass, speaking softly so the plants could listen. I began to carry less fear, like I'd been borrowing air from someone braver than me.
Until the rhythm was broken.
Not by a fight.
But by the shape of someone else's shadow.
It started subtly.
At first, I didn't notice anything had changed. D.K. was still D.K.,present, soft-eyed, careful. But something in his quiet had shifted. Where before it was inviting, now it held something closed.
We still met at the greenhouse that Saturday. He brought me an origami flower he'd made from the margin of an old book. I smiled. Said thank you. He tucked it behind my ear.
But I could tell. Something was off.
"You're quieter than usual," I said, after a long stretch of silence.
He glanced at me. "Am I?"
I waited. He didn't elaborate.
So I didn't press. I'd promised myself I wouldn't chase people who don't want to be caught.
Still, that night, I wrote a poem I didn't show him.
"It's not the silence that hurts.
It's when it stops feeling like home."
Monday
I ran into him on campus,an unexpected sight. He was rarely there unless he had to be. But this time, he stood by the library steps, deep in conversation with someone I didn't recognize.
She was tall. Elegant in a deliberately disheveled way, like the kind of person who made chaos look curated. Short copper curls framed a striking face, and when she laughed, it was the kind of sound that made people turn around.
I stopped. Watched from a distance I couldn't explain.
He leaned toward her. She touched his arm casually, like she'd done it a thousand times.
He smiled, distracted. The way he used to smile at me.
I felt something sharp twist in my chest. I hated that I felt it.
I walked away before he could see me.
Tuesday
We didn't meet at the greenhouse.
I waited. An hour passed.
No call. No message.
Just... absence.
I didn't want to assume anything. But assumptions have a way of blooming in silence, and mine were growing fast.
Wednesday
He texted me.
"Sorry about Tuesday. Something came up. Can we talk Saturday?"
No explanation.
No apology.
Just that.
I stared at the screen and tried to swallow the ache.
"Sure," I typed.
Then deleted it.
Typed again.
"Okay."
Sent.
Saturday
He was already there when I arrived.
But he wasn't alone.
The girl from campus stood beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She was beautiful in the way thunderstorms are,fascinating, but full of tension.
When D.K. saw me, he straightened.
"This wasn't the plan," he said quickly, stepping toward me. "She just showed up..."
"I'm not a stalker, D," she cut in. "Relax."
She turned to me, offered a half-smile. "Hi. You must be the poet."
I blinked. "Sorry?"
"D.K. talks about you," she said, like it was a minor trivia fact. "A lot."
I looked at him. His jaw tensed.
"I didn't mean for you two to meet like this," he said. "This is Kaia."
Kaia.
Even her name sounded like something too cool to belong in my world.
She extended a hand. "I used to be his person. For a while. Now I'm just... around."
Used to be.
I didn't know what to do with that sentence.
I shook her hand. It was warm, her grip too confident.
"I was just leaving," she said, eyes flicking between us. "But don't mind me. D likes his space poetic. I'm too loud for this greenhouse thing anyway."
Then she walked out, trailing cinnamon and mischief in her wake.
D.K. looked at me.
"I didn't invite her," he said.
I nodded. "But you didn't ask her to leave, either."
He flinched.
"It's not what you think," he said. "Kaia and I... we were close. A long time ago."
I raised an eyebrow. "Close?"
He sighed. "Complicated."
Of course.
"She's back in town for a while," he added. "And she wants to reconnect. As friends."
I hated that word.
Reconnect.
As if the past were something you could just plug back into without consequence.
I didn't say much for the rest of the hour.
Neither did he.
The silence returned.
But this time, it didn't feel holy.
It felt haunted.
Sunday
I didn't hear from him.
Instead, I got a message from someone else.
"Hey ... you don't know me, but I'm in Kaia's writing group. She mentioned you. Thought you might want to know she signed up to read at the same panel you're hosting next week. Said something about surprises."
I read the message three times.
It felt petty to care.
But it also felt personal.
Because D.K. knew I'd been working on that panel for months. Knew how much it mattered to me. And now... Kaia?
Monday
I tried to write about it. But the words came out brittle.
I tried to talk to a friend. But everything sounded too dramatic.
I even tried to convince myself it didn't matter.
But it did.
Because Kaia wasn't just someone from his past.
She was a new complication in my present.
Wednesday
We met for coffee.
D.K. looked tired. Or maybe it was guilt.
"She signed up for the panel," I said, after ten minutes of pretending I wasn't going to bring it up.
He nodded. "She mentioned it."
"You didn't think to warn me?"
He sighed. "I didn't know how."
"You mean you didn't want to."
"That's not fair..."
"I don't care if it's fair," I snapped. "I care that she's suddenly everywhere. And you're letting her be."
The silence that followed was thick.
"She's not a threat," he said finally. "But I can't pretend she wasn't important."
"And I can't pretend I'm not affected by this," I replied.
His eyes softened. "Do you want me to stop seeing her?"
The question landed heavily.
I didn't want to be that person.
But I also didn't want to lose what we had.
"I want to feel like I matter," I said.
"You do," he said. "More than you know."
"Then show me," I whispered. "Because right now, it feels like you're holding on to two things at once."
He reached across the table. Took my hand.
"I'm choosing you," he said.
"Then choose me completely."
Later That Night
Kaia messaged me.
"No hard feelings, okay? I didn't know you'd be so sensitive. D.K. and I go way back. That doesn't have to change anything unless you let it."
I didn't reply.
I blocked her.
Then I wrote a new poem.
One line only:
"I don't compete where I was invited to belong."