Between Bruises & Blooms

Years later,

somewhere
inside an app
I almost forgot
we shared,

there is still
a playlist
called

Chy.

My name.

Not hidden
inside some old message.

Not buried
beneath years
of history.

Still there.

Forty-four minutes
of a man
choosing songs
and thinking

her.

I don't know
if you listen anymore.

I don't know
if you forgot
it exists.

Maybe it survived
only because
you never bothered
to delete it.

But tonight
I found it.

And suddenly
there was a version
of us
still alive
somewhere.

Not screaming.

Not broken.

Not climbing
through windows.

Not throwing
anything sharp.

Just music.

A man
choosing songs
for a woman
he loved.

A woman
who still believed
love might be enough.

It hurt
more than I expected.

Because apparently
relationships can die

while their playlists
keep breathing.

And somewhere
on Spotify,

you still love
a version of me

you haven't known
in years.