Two figures.
One of them is looking at me, the other is pretending she isn’t, or is she?
And that white gulf between them. That’s the part that got me. I felt a lump growing in my throat.
All the words we never say are sitting in the middle like a third person who refuses to leave.
That lattice above them, to me, looks like a ceiling built from old arguments and unsent messages.
I hate to say it, but every relationship I’ve ever ruined or saved has had a moment that looked like this.
What I love, and I mean love, is the silence.
Christine didn’t need to fill the center; it filled itself. The emptiness does the talking.
That’s the real conversation:
the space where two people decide whether they’ll cross the gap or build a bridge in the wrong direction.
Every time I look at it, I remember a person I wished had stayed, and a person I’m grateful left.
It’s uncomfortable and weirdly elegant and most importantly, honest. It cuts deep.
That’s why I want it on my wall.
Because it’s a mirror I can’t negotiate with.
Credit: my dear friend G. 🥂🍾
print available here.