i miss my source polycule

I often find myself adrift in a sea of longing, especially after my polycule—Bossuet and Musichetta—has become a mere memory. I miss the vibrant laughter we shared, rich with inside jokes and intimate glances that filled our late-night discussions with life. The way Bossuet’s exuberance could light up even the darkest corners of our tiny rooms, and Musichetta’s sharp wit always grounded us when our dreams spiraled too high—those moments now echo painfully in my heart. Wandering the streets of Paris, the familiarity of the cobblestones beneath my feet contrasts sharply with the growing sense of isolation that envelops me. Each passerby reminds me of the unique bond we once shared, now cluttered with unfulfilled promises and bittersweet nostalgia. Even at my practice, where I engage deeply with the lives of others, the absence of Bossuet’s spirited commentary and Musichetta’s calming presence leaves me feeling eerily hollow. I can’t shake the reflection on the beauty of our collective spirit or the realization that love, in its myriad forms, is the very remedy I crave, yet it slips through my fingers like a fleeting shadow at dusk. I find myself yearning for those moments of unbridled joy and connection, hoping against hope that somehow, someday, they might return to me once more.