They came by different roads.
For one, an alley behind a dumpster,
footsteps that weren't hers;
the other on cotton sheets,
still warm from sleep.
Both slipped through a veil
that blurred everything behind it.
Now the night lives with them,
sometimes quiet, never gone.
They do not speak of it,
not often, not plainly.
But there's a flicker in their eyes
when stories stray too near,
the way the air thickens
around the word safe.
When the weight returns —
and it always does —
they show up.
A hand on a coffee cup,
a shoulder just close enough,
no words needed.
Soft, but strong,
a common thread
that holds,
the way friendship does
when built from the stuff
that broke them.
Because just being there
is not the same as
been there.
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