Your gravity

There are planets
that survive for billions of years
because they understand distance.

And there are stars
so massive
they bend everything around them
without trying.

I think we became something like that.

Not all at once.
Not in some dramatic movie-scene way.

Slowly.

Message by message.
Call by call.
Long drives.
Shared silences.
Tiny rituals that did not look important
until suddenly they were.

Until my nervous system
started recognizing yours
faster than thought.

Until your name
could change the chemistry of a room.

And maybe that is what gravity actually is.

Not fate.

Not soulmates.

Just repetition becoming wiring.
Comfort becoming instinct.
Two people accidentally teaching each other
what home feels like.

The terrifying part is
gravity does not care
what structure survives around it.

Planets still collide.
Stars still collapse.
Galaxies still drift apart
while the pull remains.

That is the part no one warns you about.

You can try to rename something.
Contain it.
Shrink it down into safer language.

Friendship.
Distance.
Boundaries.
Timing.
“Let’s not make this bigger than it is.”

But the body knows.

The body notices
how one warm conversation
undoes three weeks of restraint.

How one soft look
reactivates an entire emotional ecosystem.

How we can spend days
trying to stabilize ourselves separately
only to fall back into sync
like some invisible tide
still pulling underneath everything.

I think that is why this hurts so much.

Because losing someone is one kind of pain.

But standing inside a connection
that still has gravity
while the future around it becomes uncertain because you found someone new and lied to me about us when you left me?

That is its own kind of heartbreak.

Because the pull is still there.WE are still deeply connected.
But the pull of losing you, the final pull that will kill me, might be what wins.