She’s the butterfly and the ocean. Both too delicate to touch and too vast to hold.
I can’t tell her that. Not when she’s looking at me like this. Eyes wet and tired, like she’s hoping I'll say something that makes the world make sense.
The words are there, circling. But they’re clumsy, stupid.
I want to tell her that I’ve spent my whole life trying to learn how to hold beauty without breaking it.
How I used to press flowers between the pages of my books, just to prove that something so fragile could survive my touch.
And she would’ve understood.
那天她说：“我不是我表现出来的那种人。”
I should've asked her 你真的是什么样的人？ But I didn’t.
I just smiled and said, “You’re so cool.”
她点头，“我知道” like it wasn’t the first time she'd heard that.
她总是把伤口讲得像别人的。
She wears her father’s blue shirt, her mother’s blazer.
Everything the color of the ocean she says she loves. The color of a bruise trying to heal.
Said she didn’t believe in good and evil. Said she understood why people leave.
The first time I tried to tell her, a butterfly landed on a flower by the ocean, and I almost caught it. I reached out, fingers brushing the air, but stopped myself.
She looked at me, eyebrow arched. “Why didn’t you catch it?”
“I’m trying to learn how to appreciate beauty without consuming it.”
She laughed.
早上的阳光像一把刀，斜着切进来
Paints the room in shades of gold and blue.
Outside, the ocean gleams. Waves catching light like shards of glass.
“You look different in the morning,” I say. “Softer.”
She rubs her eyes. “我每个小时都不一样。”
She leans into me, head on my shoulder, just for a second.
Just long enough for me to memorize the weight of her.
I want to tell her I’ll miss her too. That I already do.
But the words stay lodged in my throat, heavy and useless.
So I nod.