She’s married now.
Six months gone,
And I’m still here
Talking to ghosts in my head.

We had plans,
Wild ones—
Run away, burn maps,
Name stars after each other.

And we did it.
We ******* did it.
Left everything behind like smoke trails.

But then she wept.
Worried about her parents—
Would they hurt themselves
If we disappeared for love?

She called her dad.
He cried.
That old man broke her
More than I ever could.

And I knew.
I knew I was losing her
The moment she said,
“Maybe we should go back.”

I took her home.
Even though it was killing me.
Even though everything inside me
Was screaming no.

Then came her wedding.
I begged her not to.
I cried like a boy.
But she didn’t move.

She said nothing.
She got dressed.
She walked into a future
That didn’t have me in it.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.

She’s married now.
Six months have passed.
Why did she do this to me?
Things like this happen—
But how and why?

We had plans,
Dreams stitched into whispered nights:
Someday,
We’d run.
We’d escape.
We’d belong to no one but each other.

I remember the day we did it—
Left it all behind.
She cried quietly,
Worried what my parents might do.
What if they hurt themselves in grief?
What if we had made a mistake too big to undo?

She called home.
Her father cried.
“Come back,” he said,
“Where are you?
Tell me where, and I’ll come get you.”

She broke.
I watched it happen.
Maybe she remembered childhood laughs,
The smell of home-cooked food,
The weight of old memories
Tugging her back.

So I took her home.
Even though my chest screamed
Don’t let go.

Then came her wedding.
She told me she didn’t want to do it.
I begged her not to go through with it.
I cried.
I said everything.
I want nothing else but her.

But her mind—
It was elsewhere.
Fixed.
Still.

And so she married.
While I lay in bed,
Tears soaking the pillow,
Wondering:
What did I do
To deserve this?

I loved you.
You married someone else.
All our plans—
Gone.
Most of the happiest days of my life
Were with you.

Reality is cruel.
Fate is cruel.
You were cruel.
And me—
I’m no better.
Maybe I’m just…
Empty.

Not even lonely.
Just hollow.
Void.
Unmoving.
Unreal.

I make promises I won’t keep.
I talk big dreams I won’t chase.
I say I’ll change—
Then stay the same.
Naive.
Pathetic.
Unfocused.
A wanderer with no real will to move.

Sometimes I ask for advice,
But I forget it in an hour.
I live in loops.
Wake up.
Pretend.
Sleep.
Repeat.

I say I want to change,
But what do I even want?
Do I want anything?
Do I even know?
No goals.
Just daydreams.

A fantasy:
A life with no purpose—
Just food,
Peace,
Movement.
Trains, buses, faces I’ll never see again.
New places.
New cultures.
No pressure,
Just air.
Just being.

But how?
Where will I find the foods to eat?
Who will give me a place to stay?
Dreams are just dreams.
Some turn real.
Most don’t.

Then fate shows up,
Smirking.
Punches you hard in the face.
“Wake up, my boy,” it says.
“Some things just aren’t meant to be.”

Like us.

I miss you.
I love you.
I want you.
I don’t want to be without you.

But I am.

And now—
I’m alone.
So alone.
And I don’t even know
If I care anymore.

I don’t worry about family.
About future.
About anything.
I am empty.

"Help me."
"Miss me."
"Love me."
"Tell me, why?"

Why did this happen to me?
I’ve done bad things.
I’ve also done good too.
So what did I do
To deserve this ending?

I don’t know.
I am clueless.
I am lost.

I am empty.
But I still breathe.
And maybe one day—
I’ll begin to fill myself.
Because in the end,
No one else will.

But for now
I am just empty.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.

The matchbox
was hers—
bright red
with a tiger on it,
its head tilted
like it knew the ending.

One match left.
He kept it
in the drawer
beside loose buttons,
an eye drop bottle
half full,
a packet of salt
from a meal
they never finished.

He never lit it.

Not when
the bulb blew
above the stove.
Not when
monsoon took the power
three nights straight.

He’d reach—
then pause.
Then close the drawer
softly.

Until
the day
her number stopped ringing.

He struck it.

Once.

It flared—
brief, bright,
then gone.

The drawer
still smells
like her.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.