It wasn’t a special day.
No anniversary. No holiday. Just a Tuesday, maybe. Or a Thursday.

The house was chilly, the kind of fresh spring chill that settles into the bones as winter leaves the scene.
But there was a spot of sun on the floor.

Just a small patch, pooling in through the window like a soft invitation.
She sat down in it. Cross-legged on the hard, cold, dated tile.

No one was home. Just her. And her thoughts. The silence wasn’t sharp anymore. Just still. Silent.

It had been a few months since the last goodbye. The third one.
Her body had stopped aching.
Her days had found a rhythm again.
She was smiling in photos. Mostly.
But she hadn’t thought about trying again.

Not seriously. Not with hope.

Not until that moment.

___

I share the rest of this story on Substack, where my writing is sent quietly to inboxes.