Not Your Typical Literary Masterpiece: AKA My Mood

FaVouritE

Could've sworn it was nothing—
the way your voice carved space in the air,
or how your hands made everything softer,
even the sharp edges I carry.
You're a moment I wasn't meant to catch,
but I'm still holding my breath,
like if I exhale, you'll slip through.

I used to laugh at people like me,
the ones who'd trace constellations in someone's smile.
But here I am,
watching you fill the cracks in the ceiling,
covering up all that was left untold,
the kind you'd keep in a box under your bed,
where no one else could find it.
You're too close,
and somehow never close enough.
It's pathetic—
this constant ache,
this quiet question
I'm too afraid to ask.

You called me your favourite.
Tossed it out like spare change,
but it's all I hear.
Every room feels smaller now,
every silence louder,
like your voice is still here,
echoing off walls that never listened before.

Favourite.
What a stupid, beautiful thing to say.
Favourite.
What a cruel, impossible thing to mean.
I wear it like a threadbare sweater,
pulled too tight, unraveling.
Still, I won't take it off.

Say it again—please, just once.
Say it in that way you do,
like it costs you nothing,
like it doesn't ruin me.
I'll sit here, sunken and still,
pretending your words don't pull me apart,
pretending I don't want more than I can hold.

And if you'd only stop smiling—
God, that smile,
like daylight I can't touch.
Do you even know how it feels
to be the one looking in,
to be the one left outside,
reaching for something that was never mine?

You're that someone in the song
who never stays sober long enough to notice,
the muse in a cardigan,
half-written in the margins of my mind.
I want to hate you for it.
For how easy you make this look.
For how hard it is to pull away
when you're the only place I've ever wanted to stay.

Say it again—please, just once.
Let it ruin me all over.
Because I'll take it, whatever this is.
Even if it's nothing,
even if it's all in my head.

Favourite.
What a cruel kind of magic.
What a sweet, relentless curse.
I keep trying to tell myself
it means nothing to you.
And yet, it's everything to me.
I'd carve it into my skin if it meant I could keep it—
one piece of you that's mine.

And if I can't have you,
at least let me keep this.
One word, one moment.
"Favourite."
Call me that,
and I'll believe it's enough.