The Violins Are Playing

It could have been something beautiful.
It could have been warmth. Trust. Laughter echoing down years you never got to have.
But instead, it’s this.
Silence that cuts.
Words that wound.
Regret that won’t stop humming in the background.
And the violins are playing.

He doesn’t know it—maybe never did—
but there was music in the hope.
In the trying.
In the belief that someday, somehow, he might show up differently.
That all the damage might soften.
That he might meet you halfway.
Or even just look back.

But he didn’t.
Not really.
And now, all you hear are the strings—
not triumphant, not tragic—just resigned.
The soundtrack of something that almost mattered.

You gave so much.
Poured yourself out again and again,
even when the cup was bone-dry and your hands were shaking.
And still, the violins are playing.

No one will write about this.
There’s no eulogy for relationships that could have been.
But the grief is real.
It lives in the unanswered texts.
The twisted versions of you he’s chosen to believe.
The hollow place where a bond should’ve lived.
The knowing that you’d take it all back—
not to erase the hurt,
but to never have tried at all.

You thought love could be enough.
It wasn’t.
You thought truth would win.
It didn’t.

And now the music plays on,
quiet and cruel,
a closing scene for something that never got the story it deserved.