A Journey Through Phases
Phase: Frost in June (June 12th)
Today, she wore a sweater the color of fog.
I asked if she’d ever been sunburned. She said,
“Heat doesn’t stick to me.”
I laughed. She didn’t.
Her smile? A flicker—there, then ice.
I wonder if winter follows her
or if she carries it in her ribs.
Phase: The Glass Wall (June 19th)
Brought her coffee. Black, no sugar—
how she likes it.
She said thanks but didn’t sip.
Just let it steam between us,
a tiny ghost.
We talked about the rain.
“It’s just water,” she shrugged.
I wanted to say, “Not when it’s yours,”
but my tongue turned to chalk.
Phase: Shadow Dancing (July 3rd)
Sat beside her at the park.
She drew constellations in the dirt—
“See? Stars are just holes in the dark.”
I tried to joke: “Maybe we’re the dark.”
She didn’t look up.
Her laugh? A moth brushing a window.
Close, but never landing.
Phase: The Almost-Touch (July 20th)
Her hand grazed mine when I passed her a book.
A static spark.
She jerked back like I’d burned her.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be,” she replied.
“Some things aren’t meant to conduct.”
I’m starting to think she’s not made of skin,
but something quieter.
Porcelain? Smoke?
Phase: Untouchable Math (August 1st)
Closer. Farther.
The equation never changes.
I bring her wildflowers; she names their Latin roots.
I mention a song; she dissects the chord progression.
Everything becomes a fact,
nothing a feeling.
But tonight, she texted:
“The moon’s too bright.”
I didn’t reply.
Just stared at those four words
like they were a crack in the glass.
Phase: The Letting Go (August 15th)
She left a seashell on my desk.
“Found it. It’s hollow,” her note said.
I held it to my ear—no ocean, just wind.
Maybe that’s her language.
Maybe I’ve been trying to read a poem
written in an alphabet of frost.
I’ll stop chasing warmth.
But I’ll keep the shell.
Final Phase: Untouchable, Still
She’s not a riddle to solve.
Not a fire to thaw.
She’s a girl who lives in parentheses,
her heart a comma, not a period.
I’ll love her in lowercase—
quiet, unbloomed.
Some stars aren’t meant to be reached.
They’re just…
light to walk home by.
(Maybe she’ll read this someday.
Maybe she’ll smile.
Maybe it’ll melt nothing.)
P.S.
Kisah ini terbangun dari gemericik dialog yang tercecer, senyum yang menguap sebelum mekar, dan ruang antar dua tubuh yang tak pernah benar-benar menyatu. Bagaimana mencintai sesuatu yang tak bisa disentuh? Mungkin dengan menjadi angin yang tak meminta—cukup menemani, lalu pergi ketika kaca mulai berembun.