The Day Your Name Stayed On My Grocery List

I realized you were not coming back when I stood in the aisle holding a carton of milk and read your name written neatly on my grocery list as if it still belonged to the future.

The store was quiet in the late afternoon lull and the hum of the freezers pressed against my ears. Light from the high windows slanted down onto the worn linoleum and caught the dust in the air. I traced the ink of your name with my thumb until it smeared slightly and I folded the list in half because leaving it open felt like inviting someone to ask questions I could not answer.

Outside the sky hung low and pale and the heat felt heavier than it had all morning. I loaded the bags into the trunk and sat in the car without starting it. Your name stayed folded in my pocket and I could feel it there like a small weight. I remembered how you used to insist on writing the list even though I knew the items by heart. You said it helped you imagine the week ahead. I had liked that you imagined anything at all.

We had lived in this town our whole lives except for the years we spent pretending we had not. You left first and came back quieter. I stayed and told myself I was waiting for the right reason to go. When we found our way to each other it felt less like a beginning and more like recognizing something that had always been nearby.

Our days were ordinary in a way that felt almost sacred. Mornings with coffee on the back steps listening to the town wake up. Evenings walking the same loop past the school and the old church. We touched each other in small habitual ways a hand at the lower back fingers brushing when we passed in the hallway. We never talked about forever but we built it piece by piece anyway.

The afternoon you told me you had been offered a position out of town the cicadas were loud and the air smelled like cut grass. You stood in the kitchen with your hands wrapped around a glass of water you did not drink. You said you did not know what you wanted. I said I understood and meant it and did not.

In the days that followed we moved carefully around each other. You packed and unpacked boxes. I fixed things that were not broken. We talked about logistics and avoided feelings like they were fragile and sharp. At night I lay awake listening to you breathe and wondered how long before I would be listening for something else.

On your last evening the sky turned a deep bruised purple and a storm threatened without arriving. We sat on the porch and watched the light fade. You leaned your head on my shoulder and for a moment I thought that was your answer. Then you stood and said you should finish packing.

I did not walk you to the door in the morning. I stayed in bed and listened to your footsteps move through the house. The front door closed softly. The silence that followed was complete.

Weeks passed and the list stayed taped to the fridge. I added items and crossed them off around your name like it was still part of the plan. Sometimes I stood in the kitchen and read it out loud just to hear the sound. The town went on. The weather shifted. People asked polite questions.

One evening a storm finally came and the rain was hard and sudden. I sat at the table and unfolded the list. Your name was smudged now almost unreadable. I took a pen and crossed it out slowly. The paper tore slightly under the pressure.

The next morning I went to the store with a new list. The aisles looked the same and the milk was still cold. I bought what I needed and nothing more.

At home I put the list in the drawer instead of on the fridge. The house felt quieter but steadier. That night I cooked for one and ate at the table. The town settled into sleep and I let myself imagine a week ahead that did not require your name to be written down to exist.