Hollow Echoes

A poignant reflection on the painful tug-of-war between haunting memories and the need to

He says he’s sorry,
but apologies sound hollow
when his posture still carries violence
like it belongs to him.


There’s no softness in the way
he moves through the room,
no trembling guilt,
no fear of losing me—
just the same storm
wearing a quieter voice.


And I stare at myself in the mirror,
at the tear-stained face
looking back like a warning sign.


Run.


God, it screams it.
Run before love turns into survival.
Run before “I’m sorry”
becomes another bruise
hidden beneath long sleeves
and practiced lies.


But memory is cruel.


It drags me backward
by the wrists.


Back to the laughter,
the forehead kisses,
the nights his arms
felt safer than the world outside them.


I hate that my heart
keeps building homes
inside people
my soul is begging me to escape.


Because love should not feel
like standing barefoot
between two disasters—
one made of fear,
the other made of longing.


Yet here I am,
split down the middle,
with my tears telling me to leave
and my memories
begging me to stay.