After the meal, I followed her steps—
to the kitchen,
where steam curled from chipped pots,
and she stood washing dishes like she could scrub away the cold that clung to these walls.
She didn't notice me at first.
Or maybe she just pretended not to.
I took the dirty dishes back,
approached quietly,
and whispered,
"Do you want some help?"
She screamed, startled,
the clang of ceramic nearly shattering the silence.
"Knock next time!" she snapped, eyes wide with fear and frustration.
I smiled faintly.
"So, you really live alone here?"
She scowled.
"I'm just visiting. Leaving soon."
I paused.
"How do you know I live alone?"
Caught off guard, I shrugged,
"I've been here a week, and you're the only other soul I've seen.
And honestly, who screams bloody murder in a kitchen?"
She chased me off with a dish,
then asked with tired suspicion why I was even here.
"Wandering," I said.
She hit my arm like I'd lied to her soul.
"Liar."
I gave up trying to explain.
How could I tell her the truth?
How could I explain a soul broken beyond words?
"Where did you come from then?" she demanded.
I told her a story:
A place without light,
walls taller than hope,
a forgotten abyss where shadows swallow everything.
She smirked, knife still in hand.
"Do you think I'm a child?
Don't tease me with riddles."
I teased back, close enough to see the blush bloom on her cheeks,
"I think you're too close for someone who's scared of knives."
She tried to run, but I caught her hand.
"Don't forget the knife," she warned, breath shaky.
"If you dare," I whispered.
She pulled away, saying she'd leave tomorrow.
"Want me to come?"
"No. I don't need your recklessness."
"Then I'll leave tonight."
"Midnight? It's cold."
"I'll manage. Or do you want to come with me?"
"No one wants you around," she spat, but her voice cracked.
"I won't disturb your sleep."
Packing my few things, I didn't know where I was going—only that I was leaving.
I left a note:
I don't know who you are, or where you come from.
Take care.
If we meet again, maybe we can just be — instead of searching for reasons to stay or go.
I stepped into the cold night,
into the darkness I'd fled before,
carrying the memory of warmth and a fragile heartbeat.
But hope is a cruel companion.
Because no matter the brief flicker of light,
I am still the shadow beneath it.
The guilt—an endless shackle.
The regret—an ocean drowning my soul.
I wish for death,
not for peace,
but for release from this torment.
For an end to the pain I carry like a crown of thorns.
Over and over, I beg for oblivion,
only to wake again,
a broken man haunted by the ghosts of what I was—and what I failed to become.
I am a monster cloaked in human skin,
wearing the mask of hope,
but inside, I am nothing.
Nothing but a cold heart
that will never thaw.