Switchblade Nostalgia

The supermarket fluorescent lights are loud. We locked eyes across the aisle, and the world went completely silent. No hello. No wave. Just two ghosts shopping for groceries. We moved on with our lives in a split second, but my chest caved in. I saw your eyes—God, I missed your eyes. I missed the sound of you laughing, the effortless, genuine way you used to exist. I miss all of you. But the shelf-space between us is an ocean now. We will never get back what we once had, and the mirror points directly at me. I ruined us chasing a spark, wanting to feel something, only to end up completely numb, only to end up losing you. That single glance was a switchblade to the chest. Stabbed in the heart with nostalgia— the absolute worst type of pain. Yet, for a fraction of a second, the phantom warmth of you flooded in, quickly swallowed by the ice of guilt, the ache of regret, everything hitting me at once. It was beautiful. It was agonizing. My eyes were anchored; I couldn't look away. Even as the crowd blurred and the distance grew, I kept searching the room, desperate for your shape, hunting for you until you finally left, leaving me alone under the hum of the lights.