The room smells like soil and sunlight — warm, faintly sweet. The window’s cracked open just enough for the sound of traffic to slip in, low and rhythmic, like breath that never stops.

Ellis moves through the space with that absent ease he always brings to quiet rooms. He hums something under his breath, a tune without shape, shoulders loose, sleeves pushed halfway up. He picks up a stray sock from the floor, smooths the corner of the comforter, gathers the small mess I never notice until he’s here to see it.

The coffee cup on the dresser still steams faintly. The scent mixes with the damp earth in the pot beside me. I press my thumb into the soil, checking for moisture, the marigold cutting steady under my fingers. Its stem feels fragile but alive.

Ellis drifts toward the nightstand. His hand hovers over the stack of books — the same ones that have been there for months, edges softened from rereading. He picks up Pride and Prejudice, flipping it open with a lazy thumb.

Something slips out.

The sound — paper brushing wood, then the soft thud of it hitting the floor — makes me turn. A small, folded scrap lies face-down by his boot.

“Here,” I say, starting to stand, but he’s already reaching for it.

He unfolds the paper carefully, like it’s something that might tear. The sunlight catches on the faint crease lines as he smooths them out with his thumb. His eyes scan the words, slow at first, then still.

The air changes — thinner, quieter.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes once, steady, through his nose. The hum of the city fills the space between us.

My pulse trips. “Ellis?”

He looks up. Not angry. Just… knowing. His jaw works once before he says it, soft and level, as if naming something that’s already happened.

“I always wondered who taught you to guard your heart like that.”

The note hangs half-open in his hand, the edges curling like it’s exhaling.

I can see the sunlight slide across his wrist, the shadow of his veins, the faint tremor at the edge of control.

He exhales again, quieter. “Caleb.”

The sound of the name lands heavy in the room — like the blinds shifting, like the earth settling after a long rain.

I don’t move. The marigold pot tips slightly under my hand, soil dusting the floor. The faint scent of green fills the air, sharp and tender at once.

Everything stills except the sound of paper breathing.

Ellis hasn’t moved from where he stands. The paper is still open in his palm, edges trembling in the slow pull of the air conditioner. His thumb smooths the crease again, again.

I grab the towel from the back of the chair and wipe my fingers clean, dark smudges of dirt streaking white cotton. My heart doesn’t race — it just feels full, stretched too thin.

I cross the room. Stop an arm’s length away. Careful not to touch.

“He didn’t teach me,” I say, my voice quiet, steady. “He just… left me holding it.”

Ellis looks up. His eyes are the color of river glass — clear but unreadable. The note flutters once between his fingers.

“We promised to move on after he left for the army.” I hear my own breath in the pause. “He was never supposed to come back.”

He studies me like he’s trying to memorize something before it breaks. Then, softer than I expect: “You still have the poems. There are four in here, Aster. Why do you even have them anymore?”

His voice isn’t sharp. It’s tired.

I glance at the paper — the faint slant of Caleb’s handwriting, the ink faded at the corners. “Memory,” I whisper. “But I have you. Don’t I? That’s what matters.”

The words feel thin, like paper pulled too tight between wet fingers.

Ellis nods once. His jaw shifts. His eyes drop to the floor, then back to me. “Do you still have me? Or am I playing the fool?”

He breathes out through his nose, the sound small, human. “Not noticing what’s happening when I’m not here.”

The light from the window slips lower, sliding across his wrist, across the paper, across the floor between us. The city hum deepens — a bus engine somewhere, the faint vibration of passing music.

Neither of us moves.

The marigold on the dresser leans toward the last bit of sunlight, petals catching what’s left of the gold. A small, unthinking act of survival.

The paper whispers as he folds it once more — the sound softer than his breath.

I don’t reach for him.

He doesn’t leave yet.

The space between us holds everything that won’t fit into words.

The lamp hums faintly — a soft, electric sound, steady as breath.
The city outside is louder: horns, a train somewhere far off, a motorcycle cutting through the night. The noise doesn’t reach us, not really. It just presses faintly against the windows, a reminder that the world keeps moving even when we don’t.

Ellis sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight between them. The note rests beside him, a small white square on the dark blanket. The ink looks dull in the lamplight, more shadow than word.

I stay by the window. The glass is cool against my shoulder, the air conditioner a slow whisper behind me. Headlights slide across the pane — brief, pale flickers that pass and vanish. Each one catches the edge of his face, his eyes hollowed with reflection.

He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. “I’ll stay at a hotel tonight.”
The words land gently, no edge, no rise. Just fact.

My mouth feels dry. “You don’t have to—”

“I think I need some space to think.” His tone stays even, each word measured, almost kind. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

The light trembles against the glass; a car turns the corner below, then disappears.

I nod once. “But…” The rest slips out on breath. “Okay.”

He finally looks at me. Not for long — just enough that I can see the exhaustion under his quiet, the small fracture in his composure.

The floor creaks when he stands. He picks up the note with care, folds it once more, and places it back on the nightstand. His fingers linger on it for a heartbeat, like a farewell.

He crosses the room. The smell of his cologne — cedar and citrus — follows him as he picks his duffle bag up off the floor.

The door opens with a soft click. Closes. The latch catches.

For a long time, the air doesn’t move.

The hum of traffic creeps back in, slow and certain, like the tide. I press my palm against the window, feel the faint vibration of the world still breathing outside.

My chest loosens, not breaking — just opening.

The note lies under the lamplight, trembling slightly in the breath of the air conditioner.

A memory settling into place.