The Softest Thing to Break

A Love Letter From a Ghost

My Dearest,

You are a giver. A sanctuary disguised as a person. A quiet, steady thing that bends before it breaks. A warmth others seek when the world grows cold.

You pour—until you are nothing but an echo of what you once were. Until your hands shake from the weight of it. Until your ribs ache from the hollowness.

Still, they will ask for more. They always do.

You do not love like others do. You love like surrender. Like an unspoken apology. Like something desperate to be enough. You peel yourself open, lay yourself bare, place your heart in trembling hands and whisper, take what you need.

They do. God, do they ever.

They drink from you like you are a well that will never run dry. They take from you like they have never known something so sweet. And you—oh, my love—you thank them for the ruin. You convince yourself the emptiness is just another way to hold them closer.

You do not ask for anything in return. You do not dare. Because what if they hesitate? What if they falter? What if they see you the way you see yourself.

A space to be filled. A thing to be used. A body that exists only in the shape of someone else’s need. A cup, never meant to be full. A life, never meant to be more than a quiet place for others to rest.

You have learned to love the hunger. To call it devotion. To pretend it does not ache.

But, my love—There will come a day when you are emptied for the last time. When your fingers grasp for something—anything—to fill the hollow places, and you will look around and see—No one is reaching back. No one ever has.

Still, you will tell yourself it was worth it.

Because this is who you are. Because this is what love is supposed to be. Because you do not know how to be anything else.

But, my love—who will catch you when you fall? Who will gather the pieces when you finally shatter? Will they even notice you are gone?

Or will they simply move on.

Yours always, The ghost of the person you used to be.

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