The Time I Closed The Window Too Late

I heard your voice say my name from outside the window after I had already locked it.

The sound rose from the street below soft and familiar and impossibly calm and my hand froze on the latch as if it understood before I did what the moment meant. Evening light leaned against the buildings and bled into the room in tired gold. Somewhere a train passed underground and made the glass tremble. I did not look down. I knew if I did I would see you standing where you should not be and I was not ready to confirm what my body already believed.

The window held. The latch stayed closed. Your voice did not come again. The silence that followed felt intentional like something waiting to see what I would do next. I rested my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes and felt the shape of you settle into absence once more.

After you died the apartment learned how to breathe without you. It took time. At first the rooms felt too large as if walls had stepped back out of politeness. Light moved differently. Sound lingered longer. I left windows open out of habit and because the air felt wrong when it stayed trapped. Evenings were the worst. The hour when the day releases its grip always belonged to you.

The first night you returned I was standing at the same window watching reflections layer the glass. My face over the street over the darkening sky. Your outline appeared behind my reflection not inside the room but on the other side of the glass as if the window had decided to remember you. You stood on the fire escape one floor down looking up with that careful patience that always meant you were waiting for me to choose.

I did not open the window. I watched my breath fog the glass and watched you watch it. You raised your hand and pressed it flat against the pane. The sound was faint but it traveled through me. When I lifted my hand to mirror yours the glass warmed between us and something in my chest eased and tightened at the same time.

We learned quickly what you were and what you were not. You could not cross glass. Windows mirrors phone screens anything meant to separate and show at once. You lived in reflections and through them and the spaces just beyond. You said it was not painful. You said it was limiting. You smiled when you said it like someone trying to make a small joke out of a large truth.

Our nights found a rhythm. I left the window open just enough. You stood outside or within the reflection depending on the light. We spoke softly so neighbors would not hear me talking to myself. You told me about the place you were not fully in. You said it felt like standing just outside a party listening to music you almost recognized.

Winter made everything sharper. Cold air carried sound cleanly and made your outline clearer. Snow brightened the street and turned every window into a pale mirror. You appeared stronger then. More certain. Sometimes when I leaned close enough our reflections lined up and for a moment it looked like you were standing inside the room where you belonged. The ache of it was immediate and familiar.

Desire crept back carefully. It lived in the way you watched my hands when I wrapped them around a mug. In the way I noticed the exact distance between the glass and your mouth. I wanted to open the window every night. I did not. The latch felt heavier than metal. It felt like a decision.

Spring complicated everything. Warm air softened the glass. Light lingered longer and made reflections unreliable. You faded more easily. Sometimes I would blink and you would be gone and panic would rise fast and sharp before you returned thinner and apologetic. You told me staying took effort. You told me windows were not meant to hold on forever.

I began shaping my life around the hours you could come. I left work early. I canceled plans. I kept the apartment dim at dusk. You noticed. One night you touched the glass and shook your head gently. You said reflections are meant to show what is and then move on. You did not say the rest but it settled anyway.

The romance between us lived in what we withheld. In the way you never asked me to open the window. In the way I never asked if there was a way for you to come inside. We pretended that restraint was enough. We pretended that love could survive in the space between surfaces.

Summer arrived and took you from me in pieces. Brightness erased you. Heat flattened reflections until they held nothing but glare. Weeks passed without you and I learned a new kind of waiting. When you did appear it was late and brief and you looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with breath.

You told me that glass remembers but it also replaces. That reflections fill themselves with whatever stands closest. You said staying near me kept you from becoming something else. You said it without accusation. The truth of it pressed against the window between us.

The night the truth fully arrived the air was heavy and still. No breeze. No sound. The city felt paused. You appeared clearer than you had in weeks standing just outside the window with your hand lifted but not touching. You said my name and this time it sounded like a farewell trying to disguise itself.

We talked for a long time. Slowly. Carefully. I told you about my days. You told me about the quiet. The light shifted and reflections deepened. I noticed how my face filled more of the glass now and how yours thinned at the edges.

I realized then what it would cost to keep you. To live always on one side of a surface waiting. To prefer reflections to rooms. To choose a life that never fully opened. The temptation of it was real and painful and familiar. Love has always asked me to stay where it hurts.

When I spoke my voice shook and then steadied. I said I loved you. I said I loved the way windows let light in and let it go. I said I would not live my life pressed against glass no matter how much I wanted what stood beyond it.

You closed your eyes and nodded as if the answer had been waiting. You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to the pane opposite mine. The glass warmed between us. The contact was brief and complete. When you stepped back your reflection lingered a moment longer and then slipped away like a held breath released.

I stood there long after you were gone. The street resumed its noise. The train passed. The city continued. Slowly I reached for the latch and opened the window fully. Air rushed in cool and alive and real.

Autumn came. The apartment filled with ordinary reflections again. Sometimes at dusk when the light angles just right I think I see you for a heartbeat and feel the echo of your presence settle into something gentle.

Now I keep the windows open when I can. I let light and air move freely. I live in rooms not reflections. And every so often when evening falls and the glass catches my face alone I remember the time I closed the window too late and know that loving you taught me when to open it again.