between the lines: unknown no. i
breaks not from weakness, but from being too real.
let me tell you something.
about someone.
ready?
read between the lines—
he’s not fragile in the way the world assumes; they don’t understand. he isn’t breakable because he’s weak—he’s breakable because he’s a glass: clear. honest. open. and when people mishandle what’s real, it splinters—quietly, painfully, in places no one ever notices until it’s too late.
his heart has always been soft, always been humble, the kind that bruises not from the surface of the skin, but from silence that cuts too deep. from promises they said, but always forgotten. he speaks in a language they don’t teach—not reason, but feeling. not calculation, but ache.
and because they cannot decode it,
they dismiss him.
like flowers fated to wither,
his attachment dies in winter.
but he never really let go; he just folds in, like a letter never opened, waiting to be read. his longing is quiet. not loud or demanding—just a subtle call for closeness, the way a stray cat cries not for pity, but for a patch of warmth, a place to belong.
he’s not the kind you understand in passing.
he’s not a story to skim through, or a lesson to be learned in a single sitting.
he’s the page you pause at, the one with no answers,
only meaning you feel before you ever find the words.
he never needed to be praised. he never begged to be wanted.
he only hoped to be seen without being asked to change.
do you know who he is?
author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— twelfth of july, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.
The Ruin Script 
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