I fall like lightning — quick, bright, and loud, a spark that finds a heart in crowded rooms. I name their laugh a home before the sound has even learned the shape of my last truth. I stitch a life from glances, thread by thread, map bedrooms, winters, the small steady rituals— and kneel in secret chapels of my head, praying soft prayers that bend the map to us. But interest fades like someone closing doors; their quiet lack becomes a cold eclipse. I fold my longing up and put it away, a pamphlet of might-have-beens in my pocket. Still — I do not forget the rhythm they once taught. My pulse remembers their name like a hymn; it stutters, then insists, a stubborn, loyal thing, begging the world to show mercy for what was. So I fall out of love as quickly as I fell in, but never fully—there’s a ghost that keeps the beat. I catch myself on knees I swore were healed, promising roses to a silhouette that won’t return. Fiction is kinder: characters remain, they don’t close doors or change their minds at dawn. With them I build forever on pages and frames— no sudden weight of absence to pull everything down. Maybe that’s why I love the made-up more: they keep the vows my heart rehearses nightly. In real rooms, 98% of those vows dissolve— and I learn to leave, to fold, to survive the lonely. Yet the ache isn’t failure—it’s honest proof: that I can love fast, imaginatively, true. So I will keep falling, and I will keep letting go, carrying small, bright ruins that teach me how to you.