Tea

It's been six months, or something close, since you last walked out the door.

And I've spent a lot of time in your room today.

That was when I realised, I still call it your room.

I was in there to pluck my eyebrows because it has the best lighting and it sits unused every day otherwise, so I thought I'd brave the ghosts.

I looked around at all the things statuesque in time and caught a tear forming in my eye.

The little things that spell out your quirks, like the notes pinned on the wall and the three different pairs of glasses each with memories attached to them of outfits you wore or adventures we had.

It was then the thoughts crept in, of the friend I’d lost to a chance I’d thought worth taking because no one saw how harshly the end would burn us all.

But here we are, scorched—marooned in regret, lost in the place where certainty is quick to decay against the odds of life.

I've come back into the room now, three times in one day, a record.

This time, it's because it has the best view of the rain.

Maybe, one day this room won't belong to your name.

And I am not sure if that hurts even more.