The Extended Line

By Sanika Bhatia

I stood there, unmoving, in the middle of the room,

where laughter once curved into a perfect circle.

Now, the shape had shattered—

two sharp triangles facing away,

and me, just a thread stretched too thin,

a fragile line on the verge of breaking.

I was with neither, yet I was there.

Not part of them, not apart from them.

A presence unnoticed, a silence misunderstood.

And it hurt—

not in a way that stings at once,

but in the way quiet realizations do,

settling into the bones like an ache

that will never truly leave.

It wasn’t meant to be like this, was it?

Wasn’t this just a moment? A mistake?

Something small, something fleeting?

Yet here I was, stranded in the middle,

afraid to step left, afraid to step right,

terrified of what I’d lose either way.

When did it come to this?

When did it become about choosing sides?

Or is it just me, overthinking, unraveling?

I wanted to believe I could hold them both,

but now I see—

some fractures don’t mend,

some circles don’t close again.

So I remain, the extended line,

stretching between what once was

and what will never be again.

By Sanika Bhatia