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The matchbox was hers— bright red with a tiger on it, its head tilted like it knew the ending. One match left. He kept it in the drawer beside loose buttons, an eye drop bottle half full, a packet of salt from a meal they never finished. He never lit it. Not when the bulb blew above the stove. Not when monsoon took the power three nights straight. He’d reach— then pause. Then close the drawer softly. Until the day her number stopped ringing. He struck it. Once. It flared— brief, bright, then gone. The drawer still smells like her. - THE END - © 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh. All rights reserved.
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Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 10:48 PM UTC
khaali_qalam
The Matchbox
The matchbox was hers— bright red with a tiger on it, its head tilted like it knew the ending. One match left. He kept it in the drawer beside loose buttons, an eye drop bottle half full, a packet of salt from a meal they never finished. He never lit it. Not when the bulb blew above the stove. Not when monsoon took the power three nights straight. He’d reach— then pause. Then close the drawer softly. Until the day her number stopped ringing. He struck it. Once. It flared— brief, bright, then gone. The drawer still smells like her. - THE END - © 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh. All rights reserved.
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