Blind Nights

They say that broken women know how to love, but not always who to love, and she stood as proof of that.

She looked around the room, last night lingered in small, scattered ways, like light filtering into a space through crooked blinds.

It had been good, he had been what she wanted him to be, atleast in the borrowed magic of a night that asked no difficult questions.

But morning… morning had a way of asking those questions anyway.

As she sat there, the illusion began to thin, stretch enough for her to see through it.
The small inconsistencies, the pauses in his sentences, the almosts, the maybes.
The version of him that only existed when she actively filled in the gaps.
And she did not know what to do with that.

Part of her was still in the clouds, replaying his warm touch, the cute laughter, the version of him she already built in her head. The other part of her stood grounded, noticing everything she wished she had not.

She had been here before, different room, different man, but still the same negotiations within herself.

She got up and walked to the closet mirror. She did not look broken. She looked like someone who could love deeply, believe in love and who could begin again without hesitation, maybe that was both her strenth and undoing.

With no rush or anger, just clarity washing over her slowly, she picked up her things.

Last night had been real, it mattered, so did the morning, and the unanswered questions she no longer needed answers for.

She paused at the door, taking one last look at the room, at the comic books neatly stacked on the rack, at the soft glow of the lightsaber mounted on the wall, the row of marathon medals that spoke of finishing what you start.

Then her eyes drifted to the poster above the bed, where he was still sound asleep.

A quote from Marcus Aurelius read.

Do not disturb yourself by imagining your whole life at once.

She let out a small amused breath and then she was gone.