Half a Bottle, Still Cold

Sometimes what’s left behind says more than what’s gone.

The city didn’t sleep,

but I did—barely.

Not because I was tired,

but because my mind refused to shut the door

on a night that felt

too quiet to forget.

I sat on the bed,

a bottle of coconut water still in my hand,

half-finished,

just like the thoughts in my head.

There was no message from you.

Not that I expected one.

But a strange part of me

kept checking,

as if your silence had weight

I didn’t know how to carry.

The bottle was still cold.

Your voice still echoed.

“Have something sweet,”

you’d said,

as if you knew how the rest of the night would taste.

That wasn’t kindness.

That was precision.

A kind of attention

you didn’t want me to notice,

but I did.

And now,

every time I took a sip,

I wasn’t tasting coconut anymore.

I was tasting

a moment

you probably already forgot—

and I wasn’t sure

I wanted to remember

or forget it with you.