The Night The Screen Door Closed Too Softly

I heard the screen door close behind you without a slam and knew from the quiet of it that you would not be coming back.

The night air was warm and thick with the smell of cut grass and honeysuckle drifting from the yard. A single bulb over the porch cast a tired yellow circle that did not quite reach the steps. I stood in the kitchen with my hands resting on the counter where you had just been leaning and felt the shape of you linger like heat on glass. Somewhere down the road a truck passed and the sound faded into the dark. I waited for your footsteps to return. They did not.

Maple Crossing was the kind of town that went still after sunset. People closed their curtains early. Dogs settled. The silence was familiar and usually comforting. That night it felt deliberate as if the town itself was holding its breath. I walked to the porch and looked out at the empty yard. The screen door hung slightly crooked the way it always had. You used to joke that it never quite decided whether to stay open or closed.

You had come to Maple Crossing in the spring when the river was high and the fields were still mud brown. You said you needed somewhere quiet. You said it like a question. I told you it was quiet here. I did not tell you that quiet could be loud when it wanted to be. You rented the room above the old florist shop and spent afternoons reading by the window. Sometimes I waved up at you and you waved back slowly like you were learning the motion.

We met properly at the post office when you dropped a stack of letters and knelt to gather them. I helped and noticed how careful your handwriting was on the envelopes. We talked about nothing while standing too close. The fan hummed. The smell of paper and dust filled the room. When you stood you smiled in a way that made me look away first.

After that we found reasons to cross paths. At the farmers market. At the river trail. Outside the diner where the neon sign flickered. Our conversations stayed light. Weather. Work. The way the river changed color depending on the sky. You listened like each small detail mattered. I began saving them for you.

By summer we had settled into a rhythm. Evening walks that lasted just long enough. Coffee on Sunday mornings. We sat on opposite sides of the table at first. Then closer. Then close enough that our knees touched beneath it. We never talked about what we were doing. It felt safer that way. Like if we did not name it we could not lose it.

You came over for dinner the first time when the heat broke and a breeze moved through the open windows. I cooked too much food. You complimented it sincerely. We ate slowly and talked about a book you were writing but not writing. Afterward we stood at the sink together washing dishes. Our hands brushed in the soapy water and stayed there a second longer than necessary. I looked at you. You looked at me. Neither of us moved.

That night you left late. The porch light buzzed. You paused at the door like you wanted to say something. I waited. You smiled and said good night. I watched you walk down the steps and felt the absence arrive before the door even closed.

The weeks that followed stretched and tightened. We grew more careful and more reckless at the same time. We learned each others silences. The way you went quiet when you were thinking about leaving. The way I changed the subject when you mentioned the future. We touched more often but lightly. A hand on an arm. A shoulder brushed in passing. Each contact felt like a promise and a warning.

One evening by the river you told me you had been offered a job somewhere else. A place that sounded bigger and louder than Maple Crossing. You said you had not decided. You watched the water instead of me. I said congratulations. The word tasted wrong. You nodded like you had expected that answer.

After that everything felt borrowed. The air cooled. Leaves began to fall. We walked less and sat more. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes with the radio low. One night you fell asleep on the couch with your head against my shoulder. I did not move for hours. I memorized the weight of you. When you woke you apologized and shifted away.

The night the screen door closed too softly we had been talking about nothing again. The clock ticked. The bulb flickered. You stood by the door and finally said you were leaving in the morning. The words settled between us without echo. I nodded. I asked what time. You told me. I said I would see you then. Neither of us believed it.

You stepped outside. The screen door closed. I stood where I was until the house felt too empty to hold me. I did not go after you. I told myself it was kinder this way.

In the morning the town woke slowly. I stood on my porch and watched the road. A car passed. Then another. I did not see you. Eventually I went inside and turned off the porch light. The day moved on.

Months later I found one of your letters tucked behind a drawer. Unsigned. Unsent. I read it once and put it back. Outside the evening settled over Maple Crossing. The screen door creaked in the breeze. I let it stay open. The quiet was loud but familiar. I stood in it and understood at last that some doors close so softly because they were never meant to be reopened.