Place I'll Never Return Poem by Za7ra Sulaiman

We were in the backseat,
drunk on something stronger
than anything poured behind a bar.
"I used to live in that room above the bookstore, "
I said,
casually,
like it hadn't been holy once.

We were a blank page,
ink still wet—
filling it in
with laughter,
with arguments,
with half-slept mornings.
The streetlights blinked like omens,
all of them
pointing us forward.

And I hope I never lose you.
I hope this
never folds into
a before.

Because if I ever did—
if you ever left—
I could never pass that place again.
That room,
those floorboards,
those stairs that knew our weight.
That's the kind of ache
that time doesn't touch.
That's a doorway I'd never walk through again.

And love,
this city hums with your name.
The corners,
the windows,
even the silence
echoes you.

And I am afraid—
tenderly, terribly afraid—
of what would happen
if you left.

I still remember the open window,
autumn in your jacket
slung over my shoulders.
We blessed the rain
that dripped through the cracked ceiling.
We memorized the creaks beneath our feet—
as if knowing the place
meant keeping the feeling.

We played our games,
me the skeptic,
you the magician.
I packed my things once,
left the room
without telling you.

But then you called—
said my name like it was a hand
held out in the dark.
I turned back
before the city could forget me.
We climbed the roof
and let the sky cover us.

I hope I never lose you.
Not just you—
but who I am
when I'm with you
in that place.

Because I know
what it would feel like
to lose it:
to pass by that building,
to glance at the window,
and feel my chest pull shut.

I'd never go back.
Not because I don't want to—
but because I couldn't bear
how much it would hurt.

You held my hand in the street,
walked me back
to the door we used to open barefoot.
That place was more than four walls—
it was belief.
It was.