What I Didn't Say

An eyelash on her cheek.

A dark comma. Not hers anymore.

I watched it for two stops—

the small black curve

catching light from the window,

sitting there like something

I could fix.

Everyone else was looking down.

I could have said one sentence.

One small kindness.

I didn't.

The bus moved. She stayed oblivious.

That particular kind of vulnerability—

not knowing something is wrong with your own face,

and a stranger watching it happen

and choosing silence.

I got off at my stop.

The eyelash was still there.

I'm still thinking about what it meant

to say nothing.