You say my name like you’re checking a mic,
not to sing, just to see if it works.
We sit across from each other.
Your coat stays on.
You show me a photo:
him, laughing, wearing a paper crown.
You zoom in.
I disappear into the reflection on your screen.
I stir my soup.
Steam fogs my glasses.
You talk about his favorite café,
how he likes bitter chocolate.
I nod, like someone keeping pace with a story
they’re not part of.
You call me friend.
It fits like a receipt –
time, location, total.
I fold it small,
tuck it where no one will find it.
At home, I reheat the day.
The pan remembers.
I water the plant you left behind.
One leaf turns toward a window
I haven’t learned to open without noise.
You speak of him like weather –
a forecast, a pressure,
a route you’ll take.
I file the details
like someone tracking a storm
they’ll never stand in.
If I love you,
I do it quietly:
setting reminders you didn’t ask for,
saving you the last slice,
leaving early
so I can arrive on time to your laughter.
Care, returned to me
stamped delivered, not read.
Hope obeys the rules.
It waits at crosswalks.
It doesn’t touch your hand.
It learns your schedule
and never asks the bus to stop
where there isn’t a sign.
I don’t say it.
I make room for it
the way you carry a coat indoors,
arms full of other things,
meaning to hang it later.
It warms no one.
It is still mine to hold.
If I’m a light,
I’m the kind you don’t notice,
the bulb over the sink,
steady,
making visible what you came for.
Or maybe I’m a window,
kept clean, yours to look through,
whether or not you see me.
This is not a question.
It’s a way of arranging the furniture
so you can move through the room.