the day before

five days before they say im like air,
a name that slips, between chairs and classroom laughter,
a ghost at the edge of every photo.
i learn the math of being unseen:
smile, small talk, fold words away
so nothing bumps the perfect surface.

four days before i practice being quiet like a skill,
answering “fine” before the question lands,
send messages that read and die.
i eat cereal standing, watch the kettle sing,
count the number of times my mum calls my name.

three days before i paint my silence in errands;
return the library book, mend a loose button,
sit on the bench that faces the park and pretend
the world is a painting i can walk away from.
a dog sits beside me for a while; i pet it like a sacrament.

two days before i cry in the bathroom until the mirror fogs,
wipe my face with the hem of my sleeve,
throw a *** top in the laundry basket like an offering.
i read old lyrics of songs until the words mean something close to home.

the day before i leave a note small enough to fold into a pocket:
not an explanation, only a map of failures.
i watch the sunset as if testing the light’s patience,
trace the route of my shadow on the pavement,
sit through a movie i don’t remember the end of.
no grand goodbyes, just the quiet putting-away
of all the daily things that once kept me company.

one day after
the house keeps its breath.
news moves around like a pebble dropped in still water: rings, texts, the slow tightening
of faces in doorways.
someone notices the hoodie on a chair, the kettle gone cold;
someone opens my messages and finds the long, small silence.
they gather in kitchen light and on stoops, hands searching for a reason.

two days after
the paper brings facts and soft questions.
my locker is unlocked, my desk a museum of abandoned notes.
old friends trade memories like talismans; a laugh, a joke retold,
the way i tucked a stray strand of hair behind an ear.
they say i was invisible. they learn how visible grief can make you.

three days after
the city seems to learn my name in pieces: a neighbor’s pause,
a barista who makes a coffee she’ll never charge for,
the teacher who keeps glancing at the empty chair.
candles appear like small stubborn suns,
and the dog from the park sits on the porch as if keeping watch.

four days after
photos fill a feed; people leave messages that glow with what they wish they’d said.
my mother folds my shirts into a drawer she can’t close,
my friends set a playlist of the songs i loved, each one an ache to listen to.
someone finds the note i tucked into my pocket and reads it aloud
not for answers, but for the way my handwriting looks alive.
they learn, too late, that invisibility is something that can be cured
by a word, a hand, a look; small stitches that, if caught sooner, might have held.