He Left on a Thursday

He left on a Thursday, just after the rain,

No suitcase in hand, no dramatic refrain.

The door clicked shut with a whisper, not bang,

No promises made, no last words that rang.

He didn’t turn back, not even to wave,

No tearful goodbye, no need to be brave.

It wasn’t a fight or a final demand—

Just silence, soft and steady as sand.

The coffee grew cold by the edge of his chair,

His scent lingered faintly like ghosts in the air.

I folded his shirt, still warm at the sleeve,

Half-hoping he'd realize he forgot to leave.

But days turned to weeks, and quiet became

The echo of footsteps that never came.

And grief, as it turns out, isn’t always loud—

Sometimes it hides in the hush of a crowd.

There was no great ending, no tear-stained page,

Just me and my shadow, learning to age.

I cleaned the sink. I watered the fern.

I waited for lessons I needed to learn.

Like how love can unravel with no sharp knife,

How loss can still breathe in a half-lived life.

How people can vanish without a sound,

But leave all their memories scattered around.

He left on a Thursday, plain as a sigh,

No thunder or warning, just a goodbye.

But from that small moment, this truth I now see:

Not all departures are meant to break me.

Sometimes, what's gone makes room for what's new—

Like silence that teaches, and pain that grew

Into something softer, quieter, kind—

A strength I never thought I’d find.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi