A Thousand Shards of You in the Rose-Gold Hood

Shard one: my thumb hovers over the screen, and the glass gives back my face split into a dozen little moons. He had said, before he left, that I was the most beautiful broken thing he ever loved. So I sit now on the warm pink hood of this Supra, let the city hum its low lullaby through the overhead wires, and let every reflection argue about who I used to be.
Shard two: the vending machine glows yellow beside me like a held breath, one bright '美' character flickering as if it knows a secret. I press my phone closer. His name floats up in the search bar, no message needed, just his letters arranged like a small constellation I have memorized by heart.
Shard three: remember how the rain used to crack me open? How I walked through Tokyo with water pooling in my chest and no one to drain it? Then he handed me an umbrella made of silence and patience, and slowly, shard by shard, he glued me back together while whispering that I did not have to be whole to be kept.
Shard four: the pink paint under my thighs is sun-warm, almost alive, and when I lean forward the car sighs a metallic note like a secret. My loafers tap once on the brick. The sky above is scattered clouds, infinite white reflections falling on my bangs. I am no longer the girl who flinched at her own mirror.
Shard five: so here is the truth folded into this street corner. Love did not fix me by erasing the cracks; it taught the cracks to shine, to catch his light and throw it back as color. I look up from the phone, smile into the lens of my life, and let every shattered fragment agree at last that I am home.

Editor: Kaleidoscope