Glimpse of Us

Sometimes even a cozy home feels empty when there's too much silence in it. Everything seems to be in place - the cup, the windowsill, the blanket with lint - but the air feels different. It's as if someone invisible changed the film in the old projector, and now a different movie is playing in the same sets. He might be laughing too - just not here anymore. And even if there's someone new nearby, you still catch a familiar intonation, a sense of déjà vu in their gaze, a habit of pausing before laughing. It feels like there's warmth, but not the kind that used to burn. And here you are standing by the window, watching the rain, which for some reason no longer turns into a rainbow. It's just rain. Just a day. Just a heart that can't learn to be "just."