The Cloud Where We Lived

In the quiet hum of my folder marked “Us,”
you still live—pixelated, paused, pristine.
A laughing selfie from some forgotten July,
your eyes mid-spark, mine chasing the light.

I press play on a voice memo:
your “hey” wraps around me
like an old hoodie found in a box—
warm, worn, and no longer mine.

Our check-ins still map the ghosts of us,
tiny red hearts pinned to cities
where we once danced between raindrops
and overpriced coffees.

Every file, a window I hesitate to open—
the kind where wind rushes in
and rearranges the dust.

I begin to curate.
Delete: the picture where I looked at you
like forever wasn’t just a metaphor.
Keep: the one where I smiled at the sky—
you weren’t in it, but I was.

The archive is heavy,
not in size, but in silence.
Each tap of “move to trash”
echoes like goodbye said properly.

And yet—there’s a strange grace
in letting go deliberately.
A funeral of files, a quiet ceremony
where I choose to stay
and the past gets to rest.

Your name still lives in my storage,
but not in my hands.
I rename the folder “Then,”
and in doing so,
make space for “Now.”

Outside, the world continues
like it never knew
we happened—
but I did.
And I’m learning to breathe
without searching for proof.

In this gentle deletion,
a new kind of love opens—
one meant only for me.

- Khushi Kaul