The Window She Never Closed

She sat by the window

where silence had a name.

Not hers.

Not his.

But a third one —

formed by the space he left.

The tea on her table

cooled like promises,

forgotten mid-sentence.

Her fingers traced the rim of the cup

like they once traced

his laugh lines.

Each evening,

the light would slant just enough

to cast shadows where he once stood —

filling the room with ghosts

that didn’t knock.

Neighbors spoke in whispers:

“She waits for a man

who isn’t coming back.”

But they never knew

that some people leave

without doors ever closing.

She watered the plant

on the sill he once leaned on.

It grew sideways,

toward the emptiness.

Just like her love.

She never burned his letters.

Instead, she folded them

into tiny boats

and sent them adrift

on the puddles after rain.

"Maybe paper floats better

when soaked in hope,"

she whispered once,

to no one.

On her birthday,

she baked his favorite cake —

then left two slices

at the table.

She ate one.

And left the other

for memory.

Some say grief ends.

But she knew better.

It doesn’t end —

it just softens

until you mistake it for furniture.

And that window?

It still opens

just enough

for her to breathe him in

when the wind is right.

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