In Mirrors

Butterfly Division

He walks like a quiet notification
never opened,
hovering on the edge of her day.

His jokes land softly
like feathers in a crowded room
no one notices how carefully
he chose them.

In mirrors,
he practices being effortless,
tilting his smile
like it might unlock something in her
that hasn’t even looked his way.

She laughs
but never because of him.
Or maybe once,
but it slipped past her
like a song she didn’t save.

He collects her small details:
the way she tucks her hair
when thinking,
how she says “okay”
like it means something more.

He holds them
like constellations
proof that something
beautiful is there,
even if she doesn’t see
the sky he’s drawn.

And he wonders,
quietly,
if charm is real
or just a story
we tell ourselves
when love has nowhere to land.