The longing

Longing

is quieter

than people expect.

It does not shout.

It does not demand.

Most days

it moves quietly

through the background

of my life.

But sometimes

it breaks open.

Sometimes

I cry

without warning—

grieving a future

I already know

does not belong to me.

The kind of crying

that empties the lungs

until the chest

feels hollow

and aching

like something inside me

has opened

and refuses

to close again.

Longing lives

in my body now.

In the space

just beneath my ribs

where the ache settles

without explanation.

People ask questions

they think are simple.

Why don’t you

get healthy

and try?

And I freeze.

Because trying

feels dangerous.

Trying

means believing again.

Trying

means standing in front

of hope

and waiting

for it to collapse.

I have stood there

before.

The pregnancy tests

in my life

have almost always

been negative.

White plastic sticks

lined quietly

along bathroom counters.

Little windows

that refuse

to change.

Each one

a small answer

my body gives

without speaking.

Still

longing does not leave.

It waits

in quiet places.

In the way my eyes linger

on mothers

holding their children.

In the brief moment

when I imagine

a small hand

wrapped around my finger.

These things

exist only in thought.

Still

my heart

makes space for them.

Even knowing

they may never arrive.

And maybe

that is the strangest part

of longing—

how something

so unlikely

can still live

so persistently

inside the body.