The Places Grief Broke

For Everything That Never Stayed

They knock like they always did—three quick raps, a pause, then one softer than the others. A secret only the two of you knew.

You freeze, keys still in hand.
The grocery bag slides to the floor.
The porch light flickers.
You haven’t changed the bulb since—since before.

The door opens before you touch the handle.
They stand there.
Breathless from the wind.
Smiling like it’s any other day.

You stare at their hands, just to be sure.
They still fidget with their sleeve when they’re nervous.
Still tap their foot.
Still wear that coat you forgot to donate.

“You gonna let me in or make me stand here forever?”

Their laugh catches the hallway light like a memory half-lived.
You step aside.

They walk past the framed photo of the memorial.
Don’t blink at the dried flowers.
Don’t mention the ashes still tucked in the drawer beside the bed.

You make tea.
They hum.

The cup stays full.
The chair holds no weight.
The room stays cold.

You don’t say a word.
If you speak, they might leave.
If you blink, they might fade.

So you pour more tea.
And sit beside the shape of your grief.

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