Your Knife, My Heart

On VK, we built a city of two, then burned it down one notification at a time. Your knife is still there, in the chat history, between a sticker of a cat and a song link I was too afraid to open.

"My heart," you might have said, if you ever spoke in metaphors. But you didn't. You spoke in ellipses and accidental likes on old posts. You spoke in the grammar of ghosts—present, then gone, then haunting.

Because that's what you carried—not a weapon forged in steel, but in silence. Every unanswered call, every photo of you laughing without me, every status change that felt like a door slamming shut. You never raised your voice. You never had to. You just held the knife steady, and I walked into it.