His head was on the door,. perhaps while his eyes were closed his heartbeat sound pounding high that he could ears. He didn't knock the door because he couldn't. The door look beautiful but familiar, like an echo of something that had once been warm. Perhaps she was responsible. Maybe not. But this? This was the closest he could approach her without collapsing.
Words had failed them. Unread messages. Calls went unreturned. And now, all he had was quiet and a cheap wooden door burdened by his apology.
Sometimes it isn't about crossing the threshold. It is about standing still and feeling your losses pressing back on you.
His breath clouded the varnish, which faded quickly.
He murmured her name like a prayer, almost speechless.
No response. Just air.
But he persisted.
Because certain doors do not open...
Until you leave a piece of yourself behind.
