Never Planned

 They met on a line stretched thin between worlds—

not quite earth, not quite sky,
just a humming place
where things feel permanent
until they don’t.

Two men,
balanced in the same fragile moment,
shoulders almost touching,
pretending the current beneath them
was something like fate.

It buzzed through their bones—
that dangerous kind of closeness,
the kind that feels like home
before you’ve checked the foundation.

He learned the shape of him slowly—
the way his laughter cut through silence,
the way his eyes held distance
even when he leaned in,
like a horizon that never stopped moving.

They never named it.

Just let it live there—
on that wire,
between heartbeat and hesitation,
between what was spoken
and what stayed trembling in the throat.

Some loves don’t bloom.
They hover.

They exist in the almost—
in late nights that stretch too far,
in hands that almost reach,
in glances that land
and then look away
like they’ve seen too much.

And maybe he knew.

Maybe somewhere in the quiet,
he felt the shift—
that subtle gathering,
like something inside the other man
remembering it was built for leaving.

It wasn’t a fight.
Not even a crack in the air.

Just a moment—
small, forgettable to anyone else—
where the world inhaled
and one of them decided
not to stay for the exhale.

A lift.

Clean.
Unforgiving in its grace.

The wire didn’t shake.
Didn’t sing.
Didn’t warn him
that the weight beside him
was already memory.

One man stayed—
hands still curled
like they’d been holding something real,
heart still syncing
to a rhythm that had already changed.

The other—
just sky.

No goodbye.
Not even the mercy of closure—
just distance unfolding
in every direction at once.

And it’s the kind of story
people don’t notice—

no slammed doors,
no shattered glass,
no final words to replay
like a song you can’t stop hearing.

Just a quiet before,
and a quieter after.

But he’ll remember.

The hum of it.
The almost-touch.
The way something felt infinite
right before it proved it wasn’t.

And sometimes,
when the night stretches thin enough,
he swears he can still feel it—

that phantom weight
beside him on the line,
that impossible balance
of two men pretending
they weren’t already
leaning in different directions.

One built to stay.
One born with wings
he never planned to fold.

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