Page 27 of Let Me In

The wind shifts. Cool against the back of my neck. Reminds me the world keeps moving, even when I’d like to pause it right here.

I go inside eventually. But I don’t turn on the lights. Don’t wash the mug. I just sit at the table, phone face down, hands loose in my lap.

The kitchen is sparse. Like the rest of the house. It’s not cold—it’s just… simple. Intentional. Clean lines. No clutter. Everything has a place. That kind of order used to calm me. Used to be enough.

Now it feels hollow.

The room’s too still. Like it’s waiting for a sound it’s not used to hearing.

Her voice.

A long while passes.

Then—

Ding.

I flip the phone.

One new message.

From a number I don’t know—but I know who it is.

I don’t know if I’m saying the right thing. But thank you. For today. For everything.

My chest tightens.

And just like that, the quiet doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

I stare at her message for a long time. My thumb hovers over the screen. I could say too much. Or not enough.

But when I type, it’s none of those things.

Today was good. I’m glad it was me you shared it with. You can reach out anytime. No wrong way to do it. I’ll be here.

I hit send. Let the words go. No second-guessing.

Because with her, I move without second-guessing.

I don’t care if it’s too much. Don’t care if I wear it plain on my sleeve.

She’s soft, and good, and doesn’t even see it. And she deserves to know someone’s steady for her in every way that matters. In the words, in the silence, in the way I’d shoulder every weight she thinks she has to carry alone. In the way I’d remind her—again and again if I had to—that soft doesn’t mean weak, and needing someone doesn’t make her a burden,

I set the phone down on the table beside the still-warm mug she used. I haven’t rinsed it. Not yet. Some part of me wants to see it there tomorrow morning, just as it is.

That mug’s going to stay put awhile.

The house is quiet, clean, and there’s nothing that needs fixing. The kind of order that used to feel like control, like peace.

It used to be enough.

But now the quiet feels thinner, like the air itself remembers her weight, her warmth. The way she sat on the steps. The way her voice softened around her words, like she wasn’t sure she deserved to be heard.

She does.

She always did.

She softened the quiet, turned it into something that felt lived-in instead of lonely.

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