Not a Promise, Not a Lie

I Stayed

HIM

You didn't say I love you.
And I didn't ask you to.

It would've sounded false
after everything we've broken—
like putting flowers on a grave
and calling it spring.

But your hand found mine.
And it didn't shake this time.

We sat in the quiet,
your eyes red,
mine worse.
Not talking,
just breathing the same room,
like it was some kind of promise.

You didn't look like the girl I used to know.
You looked like someone
who's been hurt
and hurt back
and is still standing.

I wanted to hate you.
God, I tried.
But I knew what it meant
when you kissed me with trembling lips
and didn't lie about why.

You let me see the worst in you.
And somehow—
somehow that made me stay.

You looked at me like
you were expecting me to leave again.
Maybe hoping I would,
so you wouldn't have to.

But I didn't move.
I let the weight of us settle.
The things we didn't say,
the nights we ruined,
the people we hurt—
they were all still in the room.
And we stayed anyway.

I reached for your face,
softly, like I was afraid it would vanish.
Your eyes closed.

We both knew this wasn't healing.
It wasn't redemption.
But it was something.

The kind of something
that only exists between two people
who have every reason to walk away
and still sit there,
haunted,
choosing each other.

So I whispered your name.
And you whispered mine back
like it still meant home.

We didn't promise anything.
Didn't try to fix what we couldn't.

But I stayed.

Not because it made sense.
Not because it was safe.

But because whatever we were now—
damaged, worn, tired—
you were still the one thing
I wanted to break beside.

Not a promise. Not a lie. Just the truth, finally laid bare.