I am.

They moved together once. Three points in a quiet orbit. Each step seemed guided by some invisible hand. They fit together. Their movements mirrored each other. Their presence filled the space like light spilling through old glass. Every gesture carried meaning. Every glance confirmed the pattern. I watched them. I did not reach out. I could only witness.

There were patterns. Small gestures, small silences, all shaped by something older than themselves. Something that had lingered for years in the walls and hallways. Old grievances. Unspoken rules. Frustrations passed down without apology. They carried it all unknowingly. Their laughter once rang in perfect harmony. Their silences once folded into one another. It was a rhythm learned slowly. It was a bond that felt unbreakable.

The shift came slowly. A glance that missed. A laugh that did not echo. A hesitation too long. It seemed tiny. But it grew. Every movement away cut quietly at the fragile balance. Each separation felt deliberate. Each choice to turn inward left a mark. Shadows lengthened. Tension hung in the air. Moments that once seemed ordinary became charged. The invisible threads between them thinned.

I remembered what they had been. I traced the edges of it in my mind. The orbit once perfect. The rhythm once exact. It shimmered faintly. The memory held weight. It was luminous. It was fragile. Sometimes it seemed almost alive. A trace of something that refused to disappear entirely. And yet, it was distant. It belonged to a time that could not return.

The space between them grew. It was not sudden. It was inevitable. History pressed on their shoulders. Decisions made long ago shaped the paths they now walked. Each act of independence carried the weight of old arguments. Each silence carried the echo of unhealed patterns. Their movements became careful, precise. Nothing was accidental anymore. Even the smallest gestures seemed deliberate, as if each was weighed against memory and expectation.

Watching them became a study in slow erosion. I saw the architecture of connection weakening. Invisible threads stretched until they frayed. The energy that once bound them grew faint. It hovered like smoke. It dispersed with every small, careful act of separation. There was a rhythm to the decline, a cruel symmetry. Each shift, each tiny turn, carried the cumulative weight of years. What once seemed permanent now felt fragile.

They became strangers to each other. Their orbit shifted. One moved left. Another moved right. The third circled somewhere in between. The alignment they once shared dissolved. Laughter became fragmented. Gestures misread. The light they had once reflected into each other diminished. Memory became the only witness to what had been. It trembled in the spaces they no longer occupied.

Every gesture, every laugh, every pause carried weight. History pressed on them. It shaped them quietly. It tore at them slowly. I witnessed it all. I could not intervene. I could not stop it. Only remember. Only trace the fading light. The air between them held a tension that could not be named. Shadows of the past pressed down on their present. Even small acts of care were measured against what had been lost, against what might never be restored.

Sometimes I imagined the orbit returning, imagined the three points aligning once more. But the memory was brittle. It snapped under scrutiny. What had been luminous became faint. What had been seamless became fractured. And still, I watched. Still, I traced the slow decline. Still, I held the memory of the alignment, fragile and tremulous, as the only proof that it had ever existed.