To: Lance

I almost forgot how your weight once settled in my hands, how your voice slipped under my skin and stayed there. You were always the chocolate—dark, certain, the thing you never questioned. I was the strawberry cake—soft, layered, too sweet for my own good. I kept giving pieces of myself, until the plate was almost bare.

You pulled back. What I kept offering no longer tempted you. Still, I stayed at the table, pretending the smallest crumbs you left behind could fill me.

And I was not blameless. I let others cut into me, searching for what I was missing. The frosting still carries that shame, no matter how I try to scrape it clean.

Now everything feels smaller. What once felt whole is broken into fragments, and yet I bend down to gather them anyway. I don’t ask where you’re going, and you don’t explain. I just sit here, not knowing if you will return, not knowing if I will ever stop waiting.