That night, the room was loud with borrowed tunes,voices cracking over someone else’s words.You held the mic, half-smiling, off-key, brave—while I refused, too sure there’d be more time.

A month later, silence. No last chorus,no drunken vow belted into static.Just the echo of a laugh I didn’t join,a door I didn’t know was closing then.

Maybe I should’ve grabbed the mic,should’ve sung something sad and true—something that would’ve made you turn,something to say I see the end coming too.

Or maybe I should’ve stayed home,let the party spin on without me,so now I wouldn’t have to untanglewhich part was the beginning of the end,and which part was just a Tuesday.