What Burned Between

By Vanshika Gupta

I. Her Voice — “I Spoke in Light”

I learned to speak

the language of reflection—

lamplight on your face,

shadow on the wall.

You never asked

why I stayed awake

long after the room dimmed.

Every night

I placed warmth between us,

hoping it would carry

what my throat couldn’t.

But the light began

to flicker with waiting,

and I mistook its trembling

for heartbeat.

You never noticed

how bright I burned

just to keep you

from shivering.

II. His Voice — “You Dimmed Too Soon”

I thought you loved

the quiet.

I thought your stillness

was comfort,

not fatigue.

The room stayed warm enough,

so I didn’t move closer.

Why disturb

what wasn’t broken?

You called my name once—

or maybe it was

just the bulb humming.

When the light went out,

I blamed the fuse.

I didn’t know

you were leaving

in degrees.

III. Her Voice — “The Glow Went With Me”

I didn’t pack much.

Just the hum of your silence,

and the afterimage

of your face in half-light.

The lamp I left on—

I wanted it to look

like I was still there.

Maybe you’d walk in,

see it burning,

and think

I hadn’t gone far.

But warmth fades fast

without tending.

The glow went with me.

IV. His Voice — “The Room Stayed Lit”

I couldn’t turn the lamp off.

It felt wrong—

like closing a window

while someone’s still outside.

Every night

I sat beneath it,

watching the light thin out.

I kept meaning to fix the bulb,

to find your shadow again.

But all I found

was the quiet hum

of what we were.

The room stayed lit,

but nothing inside

was visible anymore.

V. Together — “What Burned Between”

Her: I tried to warm you.

Him: I thought you liked the cold.

Her: I kept the light waiting.

Him: I mistook it for habit.

Her: I spoke in glow.

Him: I listened for sound.

Both:

What burned between us

was never fire—

only the echo

of wanting

to be seen.

By Vanshika Gupta