I Didn’t Cry When You Left, But The House Did

After he left, I sat with my hands in my lap like I was waiting for someone to call my name.

The door didn’t slam when you left. It just sighed, like it had been expecting it all along. Like it had watched too many arguments die in the hallway and knew this one wouldn't resurrect. You didn’t yell. You didn’t even look back. You just walked—past the windows that trembled in their frames like they might shatter under the weight of your absence.

I’ve always wondered– what our last conversation would look like. Would it be fiery like always, or would it finally be a reasonable conversation between two people? Would you finally try to understand my worries, or would I finally admit that I’m not easy to deal with– that I’m hard to be with? 

I sat on the floor, arms curled around my knees as the tears painted my face. The wood board croaked like a frog in agony, begging for you to come back. The house was cold, but you? Colder. After what felt like an eternity, I stood in front of the mirror. I didn’t recognize the girl staring back. She had your frown, your silence, your ability to make pain look neat. What I saw wasn’t myself, but fragments of you. 

I washed my face in the basin, letting the tap run a little longer. The tap was jammed– perhaps it did not want to be closed. I let it be. I let the water flow down the basin. I let it flow out of the basin. I watched it flood my bathroom, and my floor, and when it didn’t matter anymore– I sighed, and wiped my eyes.

The living room still smelled like you. Like cedar wood and aftershave and the ghost of arguments that hadn’t ended properly. I picked up your mug from the table. Cold coffee. A fingerprint smudged on the handle. I held it like it was an heirloom, like letting it go would mean accepting that you were really gone.

The couch still had the dent from where you used to sit. I didn’t smooth it out. I didn’t touch the blanket either. I think some part of me wanted to keep the crime scene intact, as if someone might come investigate what went wrong. As if love was a case to be solved.

My phone buzzed once. A notification. Not yours. And still, I opened it like it might be. I don’t know which is worse—hoping you’ll reach out, or knowing you won’t.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Like the sky couldn’t hold back either.

I turned off the lights one by one, leaving only the hallway lamp to flicker in the dark. The house was quiet now, too quiet, like it was holding its breath, afraid another goodbye might come knocking. I walked back to the living room, stepped around the puddle on the bathroom floor, and sat back down on the same spot I hadn’t left all evening.

Maybe tomorrow, I’d clean the mess. Maybe tomorrow, I’d open the windows, let the silence escape.

But for tonight, I just let it all be—

The water,

The cold,

The reality of your absence.

And the girl, still sitting by the door, waiting to hear her name.