A familiar scent rushes by you, escaping through the open door. The house stands still and quiet with anticipation.
The lights flicker with its last surge of energy. You place your bag down, a bag filled with words that you have never spoken before, words that will crumble these decaying walls. You place your bag on the welcome matt.
You will not find me in the kitchen with my hands in soapy water, looking out of the window, wondering if you’ll ever return, because I have stood long enough for my feet to hurt and my hands to look like my future self.
The kitchen stands still in time with a lonely cup sat on the table, hoping one day either you or I would come to visit, to pick up where the story stopped.
You’ll notice that I am not in the living room watching re-runs of past events and memories on the TV, hoping one day we could recreate better scenes. I am not living in the past, I have grown bored of watching our innocent smiles when all they brought was poison to our lips.
You won’t find me in the bedroom. You will not find the room lit with the soft glow of my phone as I fight with sleep, wondering if you’ll be okay if I lose, leaving you with the dark thoughts that lurk beside you when you finally say goodnight.
On the old floor photos lay about the room all in perfect order as If trying to point out the disequilibrium in our small story. Images of coffee, trains and parks lay on the floor forgotten and alone. The last photo lays by the door, an empty photo that captures the empty house that lays host to our memories and sorrows
From time to time our paths may cross, giving us time to catch up, to share the memories we have made with other people. We still do not share the full story.
My house stands brighter than the one before, the rooms filled with friends and family I can trust. A chilling breeze may sweep the house ever so often. I wait for the day for someone with hands and heart to come and fix the cracks, to bring back the spark I have lost, that I am afraid that I will never go back.
For you, I know that you too have built a better home, a home where you’re happy and with someone that makes each room sparkle with delight, a person whose hands are warm enough to melt the icy shield that you have built. I know there’s still a room in your house that you keep locked like a volt even though those thoughts may slip and creep through the cracks to keep you company when the lights are off.
This is all I know of your home and you know only little of mine. We still glance at the broken grey house that stands lopsided and abandoned at the end of the road. We may mention it once or twice as if it was a villain from a Harry Potter book, but we shall gladly never go back to that place.