The Ruin Script

“how do you stir your coffee?” she asked.

“the usual,” i said. “just like how everyone does.”

between the silence, i wondered why it mattered. i asked her why. “i knew it,” she said. “just like the others, or whatever rhythm the hand finds. but have you ever tried stirring your coffee counterclockwise?”

counterclockwise.

the word made me pause. “i haven’t,” i replied—enough for her to know that i loved coffee regardless of how it was stirred.  “you should try it,” she said. “it tastes better that way. swear.”

her name is primrose. the person who speaks the same language as me. she’s a poet, the kind that is subtle but heavy with depth. once you understand her language, you might find yourself drowning in metaphor. her words are never literal; they are dungeons meant to be explored—you either explore them fully or get lost trying.

she is quiet, but loud enough in letters. she hides her feelings in prose and poetry. she speaks in figures: metaphor, hyperbole, onomatopoeia, irony—name it, she holds them all. she doesn’t write to fill space; every piece she releases is layered, stitching meaning beneath the surface until the story finally breathes.

years ago, we let certain words exist between us, briefly. not the loud kind, but the kind spoken by people fluent in the same silence, just standing at different angles of it. it was surreal, almost ethereal. a love gentle enough to hold our fragments without trying to fix them. loving her taught me to see what eyes often miss, to hear what the heart insists on saying. it was so beautiful that it ended—like sunsets do.

sunsets never beg you to stay. they leave slowly, painting the sky as if to apologize. they teach us that it’s possible to smile while something disappears, that even in leaving, beauty can remain. bittersweet, yes—but still worth watching from a quiet distance.

how do i stir my coffee now? counterclockwise.

i still carry the memory of her. in the way i pause. in the way i listen. in the promises that never needed witnesses. it was brief, almost fleeting, but it stays with me every morning.

i stir my coffee counterclockwise.

how do you stir yours?

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author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— 28th of december, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.