Traveler in a Suitcase!

It’s strange,
how feelings return...
Like stray dogs to a house that once poisoned the bowl.

They don’t bark this time.
They wait.
Polite little ghosts with fur.

I moved.
Changed the curtains.
Changed the skyline.
But somehow, the rot packed itself in my suitcase.

Tell me,
what silence did I forget to bury deep enough?
Which drawer did I leave half-open
that let the dark crawl back in?

Tell me,
on the wings of a thousand paper planes
folded by hope,
crashed by habit.

I’m not running.
Just standing still fast enough to look productive.

The butterflies have returned.
Again.
They tremble beside me like old friends
wearing prettier names.

So stay.
Be one of them.
Be soft. Be fluttering. Be harmless.
Until your wings cut me open again.

Let’s stop pretending we fear the sky.
We were never afraid of falling.
Only of landing
and realizing we never left.

Let’s live, they said.
Let’s try.

And if we fail..
at least...

we did it beautifully.

-Ikkel Y.-

Funny,

how certain moments feel permanent.

Not because they lasted...

but because something inside you never moved on.

You once said we were mirrors.

That no one ever held your shadows so gently.

And maybe that was true

...for a while.

Time has its own language.

It rewrites the edges.

Polishes the memories until they look like closure.

All of those moments that we shared

When did it went wrong

no more tears left

because it does not seems real anymore

You found your light.

You found your calm.

I stayed in the quiet.

Not bitter.

Not broken.

Just… still.

Some flowers bloom once and never again.

Some promises don’t need breaking to fade.

And some names...

you carry like a middle name:

not spoken,

but never removed.

They say the heart forgets in pieces.

I believe them.

But if I loved you wrong,

I hope it still made you feel whole

...for a moment.

As for me?

No, I don’t search anymore.

I just remember

how infinite we almost were.

And I smile.

Because that version of you

was real

to me.

-Ikkel Y.-

When the Sakura touched the earth,

everyone paused.

As if beauty could buy us a moment

long enough to belong.

Can you feel warm

when the cold learns your name?

This year,

the wind didn’t knock.

It came in like it lived here.

I was disappearing in plain sight

under warmth, under words, under routine,

and no one noticed.

I learned to dress for it,

layers on skin,

layers on thought.

Keep moving.

Keep polite.

Keep smiling

until it looks like you're healing.

They said spring comes next.

But winter didn’t get the memo.

It stayed.

Took the chair across from me

and asked if I’d noticed

how quiet the room became.

I said I was fine.

I said I was adjusting.

I said “pass the tea”

because words are safer than truth.

Some warmth is artificial.

Some prayers

are just noise

you tell the silence

to feel less alone.

Bring me more layers.

I’m still cold.

Even when it’s warm,

the wind remembers.

And if spring ever arrives...

really arrives...

I might not be here

to feel it.

Because this time,

I folded myself

so neatly

into the routine

that even I

can’t find the exit.

You walk beside me.

No footsteps.

No sound.

But I see your shape

in every choice I make.

Even when I run...

especially when I run,

you match my pace

like you’ve always known

where I’ll land.

I closed my eyes once,

and imagined the crows.

How they wait.

How they hunger.

But when I opened them,

you were still there.

Quiet.

Patient.

The most familiar view I’ve ever known.

They say fog eventually lifts.

That clarity returns.

But even when I can’t see you,

I know.

You don’t leave.

You don’t have to.

You live here now.

As long as this curse lingers,

let me feel your hand.

Even if it burns.

Even if it breaks me.

Let me know I’m still something

you reach for.

Even if no one else does.

-Ikkel Yoo-

There was a cake.

Lifted gently,

as if its sweetness could delay the truth.

Placed above the table untouched, divided,

agreed upon.

The candles stood like quiet warnings.

One flame per year, per memory,

per version of me I no longer recognize.

They burned politely,

counting down to reality.

The cream was soft.

Expected.

The chocolate: bitter enough to remind me

that sweetness is not the same as satisfaction.

Eat it with me,

and maybe it won’t feel so final.

It fell.

Of course it did.

They always do,

don’t they?

The stains came quick,

familiar.

Wipe it. Harder.

Pretend it was never served.

And now it’s gone.

All of it.

No crumbs. No story.

Just a silence in my stomach

that everyone calls “full.”

Let me sit here.

Let me say I’m okay.

Let me make this

look beautiful.

-Ikkel Y.-

It began with a secret,

and a lie that fit too well.

We never met,

but you stayed in the shape of my silence.

Always beside me.

Never within reach.

Fate didn’t want us.

It carved detours instead of answers.

And every path we walked

felt like an apology

without a mouth.

You rested in my arms

in the life I couldn’t name.

But I kept them soft,

so the chain would never hold.

So you'd know

you could leave.

And I wouldn’t ask you not to.

Let me be the one

who sees you cry

in the version of us

that never got written.

Let me wipe tears

you never shed,

for a love

we never spoke.

They made us strangers.

But strangers still ache.

Strangers still remember

what was almost true.

Why did we need to meet

if memory came without it?

It began with a secret.

And a lie.

We never met.

But I still carry you,

like a fact I never got to prove.

-Ikkel Y.-