I Thought I Told Her

I thought I told her.

Swore I did.
Like breath, like rain,
Like the ache I’d learned to wear.

I’d said it in my mind
a thousand times,
voice trembling
but steady in repetition.

It lived in my teeth,
in the cracks of my ribs,
on the stairs I climbed,
in the temple I entered
with a silent scream tucked in my chest.

She looked at me—
eyes wide,
mouth soft with disbelief.
“You didn’t tell me.”

And my world split open.

Had I only told the mirror?
Only the silence in my room?
Only the bruised pillow
that swallowed my sobs?

Had I mistaken memory for confession?

I replayed the scene—
her hands on the steering wheel,
me beside her
mute as the glass.

I thought I told her.
But the words were only ghosts,
whispered so often,
I thought they had lived.

But they never breathed air.
They never reached her ears.

And suddenly,
it wasn’t just the pain that broke me—
it was knowing I carried it
alone
when I didn’t have to.