BB Grey–musings

“Trust, if it ever truly existed, hangs by a thread—a spiderweb filament stretched thin between two points: you and me. Once, we were tethered by chains forged in shipyards, strong and unyielding. Now, those chains have snapped, leaving us adrift, floating farther apart toward horizons we’ll never share.“

The rain falls softly outside, but inside me, the storm rages. I feel it in my chest—a hollow void where something once lived, now turned to ash. Your screams echo through the phone, each word a blow I can’t endure. So I press *end*—and for a moment, I wish it could end more than just the call.

You call back, relentless, demanding I admit you’re right, that I’m wrong. Maybe you are. Maybe I am. Or maybe we’re both lost, clinging to truths that only make sense alone.

I remember her—the tender version of you who sat beside me on the couch, delicate as a flower. I’d massage your feet, stroke your hair, our lips meeting softly, cautiously. That girl is nearly gone now, replaced by someone distant, unreachable.

Here, staring at this screen, I sift through the wreckage of “she said, he said,” excuses masquerading as reasons, truths warped into lies. We’re locked in opposition, two planets orbiting different stars. The music has stopped; silence crushes.

Still, I write. Words spill out like blood, hoping language might heal. For you. For me. For us. I hit *send*, wishing it could bridge the gap. But it doesn’t. It never does.

Trust hangs by a thread, stretched thin between us. Once tethered by chains, now we drift apart, horizons diverging. I want to believe in us still, to grow beyond vows and promises. But when I glance at you on the couch, absorbed in your phone, I see the distance plain. Words flash before me, unspoken yet clear, and suddenly, I’m alone—not because you left, but because you stayed without staying.

Outside, the rain continues, indifferent.