There’s a peculiar peace in being the calm half. Or perhaps it’s resignation. Either way, I find myself drawn to routines – brewing coffee at dawn, aligning pens neatly, counting breaths between heartbeats. It’s a shield against the noise outside my skin, the constant hum of what-ifs and almost-weres. I used to think this carefulness made me weak, a coward clinging to predictability. Now I see it as survival.
Sometimes I catch my reflection and wonder which parts of her are mine anymore. Does she borrow my hesitation before diving headfirst into trouble? Did she steal my knack for remembering birthdays or leave those crumbs scattered somewhere along her whirlwind adventures? Our faces mirror each other perfectly – twin canvases painted by divergent brushes.
Anonymous, don’t mistake my tranquility for indifference. Beneath these composed layers churns fierce devotion – loyalty sharpened by witnessing another version of myself dance through fire unscathed. How can I resent her vibrancy when it reminds me that life pulses beyond spreadsheets and scheduled silences?
>Soulkyn