There was a jar on her bedside table.
Clear, plain, unremarkable — the kind you'd walk past in a store without noticing.
But to her, it held everything. Or at least, it was supposed to.
Once, she'd tried to fill it — with pieces of people she loved. A ticket stub from a late-night movie with someone who barely looked her in the eyes. A dried flower from a boy who said all the right things but meant none of them. A folded note, worn and torn, where someone once called her "different" — before they left, just like the rest.
Now the jar was empty again. She had cleared it out a week ago, after the last one ghosted her in the most polite way possible.
She told herself she was done trying.
But then why did her chest still tighten every time her phone lit up with a name that wasn't his?
She wasn't sure if she was lonely… or just tired of being the only one who stayed soft in a world that kept bruising her.
She kept giving — her time, her trust, her thoughts — as if love was a transaction she had to overpay for just to keep.
And still, every time, the jar ended up empty.
Tonight, though, something felt different.
Not louder. Not clearer.
Just… quieter. Like silence wasn't the enemy anymore — just a space waiting to be filled with something that was finally hers.
She sat up in bed, fingers brushing the rim of the jar. No flowers. No notes. No broken promises tucked inside.
Just glass.
Just air.
Just her.
And for once, that didn't feel like nothing.
It felt like a beginning.