The apartment is quiet in a way that feels permanent now. His absence isn’t a shout; it’s the slow settling of dust. I find myself cataloging the things he didn’t take.
On the windowsill sits the vase, a piece of delicate porcelain from Hagi. He bought it on a trip I wasn’t part of. It’s beautiful, the glaze like a soft, clouded sky. But it has no foot. The base is rounded, so it rocks slightly with the floor’s vibrations, never quite steady. I keep it empty. To put water in it feels like a risk. Its beauty is conditional on perfect stillness, a world without tremors. We were like that, I think. Lovely to look at, but balanced on a curve, requiring a surface we never quite found.
Beside my reading chair is the puzzle book, Sudoku Noir by Copper Clues. A gift from him, because he loved logic, the clean satisfaction of a solved grid. He said the monochrome patterns were elegant. I’ve filled many, the pencil marks a testament to quiet evenings. But our relationship was never a grid of nine by nine. There were no defined squares to fill, no single correct number to slot into place. The clarity he cherished in these pages was the very thing that escaped us. I finish a puzzle and feel a neat closure. With us, there was only a lingering question mark, softly smudged.
Last month, he left a deck of cards on the kitchen table. A standard blue Bicycle deck, fifty two cards. I only noticed it yesterday. I shuffled them absently, the sound a familiar rustle. The deck felt thin. I counted. Forty eight. Four cards are gone. I have no memory of losing them. Was it during a solitary game of patience? Did one slip behind the radiator months ago? Their disappearance was silent, unmarked. That is how I’ve loved him since he left. Not with a grand renunciation, but with a gradual, imperceptible subtraction. A heart, a club, a diamond, a spade. Gone before I knew to grieve them.
The silence holds the shape of these objects. It is a heavy, quiet thing.
ns216.73.217.39da2
and then Add to home screen.