We Were Two Kingdoms That Never Learned How to Share a Border.

There was love.
That much I know.
Not the loud kind — not fireworks and firestorms —
but something quieter, like two stars drifting toward each other,
drawn by gravity neither of us understood.

But I was still learning how to hold things without crushing them.
Still speaking in storms when silence would’ve been enough.
And you —
you were already halfway out the door,
calling it freedom,
when all I wanted was a reason to believe you’d stay.

We were two kingdoms
built from mismatched blueprints.
I brought walls, and you brought escape routes.
I called it building, you called it trapping.
I wanted forever.
You wanted maybe.

And then there was the friend —
the quiet wedge,
the whisperer with hands too clean to carry the blame.
They didn’t swing the sword,
but they handed it to you,
sharpened and shining with “you deserve better” carved into the hilt.

I watched us fall apart in slow motion —
like watching a vase tip over but not moving to catch it.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
The knowing.
The helpless, aching knowing
that love was there,
but not enough to stop the breaking.

We were two kingdoms,
too proud to meet in the middle,
too afraid of what we'd lose if we bent.
So we broke instead.

Now there’s no war,
no fire,
no final battle.

Just ruins.
And silence.
And the ghosts of everything we almost were.