The Evening You Let The Screen Door Close

I watched your hand slide from mine as the screen door fell shut and the sound of it snapping back into place told me something had ended before either of us had found the words for it.

The porch light was already on though the sun had not fully set and the yellow glow made your face look older and farther away than it had that morning. You said my name like you were trying it out for the last time and then you turned toward the steps. The wood creaked under your weight and I stayed where I was because staying felt easier than following and easier than saying anything that might make you stop.

After the door closed I stood alone on the porch listening to cicadas starting their evening chorus and feeling the place where your fingers had been grow cold. I did not know yet why we were breaking or how long it had been happening but the grief was already there sitting in my chest like it had always belonged.

The town had been holding its breath all day under heavy clouds that never quite opened. I walked the long way home past the grain elevator and the old movie theater with its hand painted letters fading year by year. Every step echoed too loudly. I kept expecting to hear you behind me matching my pace the way you used to when we were younger and the town still felt wide enough for hope.

We met again later that night by accident or maybe by habit at Miller Creek where the water slid shallow and clear over smooth stones. The air smelled like wet earth and summer grass and the frogs were loud enough to fill the spaces where words should have gone. You stood on the opposite bank with your hands in your pockets and the distance felt carefully measured.

You asked if I was walking home and I nodded though my house was in the other direction. We talked about the weather and the way the creek was lower than usual and the high school lights glowing faintly through the trees. Our voices stayed even and polite and every sentence ended early. When you finally said you should go I felt the loss again sharp and immediate as if that door were closing for the second time.

In the days that followed the town kept moving at its slow familiar pace as if nothing had shifted. I worked mornings at the hardware store stacking shelves and listening to the radio hum low behind the counter. Dust motes floated in the sunlight and every creak of the door made me look up expecting to see you. When it was only customers asking for nails or paint thinner I felt foolish and tired.

Your mother came in one afternoon asking about garden wire and she smiled at me the way she always had. She asked how I was and I said fine and the word felt thin. I wondered if she could see what had happened written on my face. When she left the bell over the door rang and rang and I did not move until it stopped.

At night I lay awake listening to trains pass far off and thinking about the way you used to trace circles on my wrist when you were nervous. You had done it the first time we sat together by the creek years ago and you had done it again on the porch just before the door closed. The repetition felt cruel now like a language we no longer shared.

We ran into each other again at the diner on Main Street where the booths were cracked vinyl and the coffee tasted burnt no matter how early it was poured. Rain streaked the windows and the bell jingled when you came in shaking water from your hair. You hesitated when you saw me and for a moment I thought you might leave.

Instead you slid into the booth across from mine and asked if you could sit. The waitress brought you coffee without asking and wrote something on her pad she would not need. We talked about small things again the way we had learned to do. You mentioned a job in the next county and I felt something tighten but said nothing.

Your knee brushed mine under the table once and we both froze. You did not move it away right away and the warmth spread slowly painfully. When you finally shifted back the absence was louder than any sound in the diner. You paid at the counter and waited by the door and I knew you were giving me a chance to follow.

I stayed seated watching rain blur the street outside until you left. The bell rang. The door closed. I pressed my fingers into the table where the vinyl was peeling and tried to memorize the feeling of not going after you.

Summer deepened and the air grew thick and slow. The town fair arrived with its ferris wheel and fried dough and music tinny through old speakers. I walked the grounds at dusk letting the lights flicker across my face and thinking of the year you had won me a stuffed bear I never kept.

I found you by the edge of the parking lot near the trucks and the smell of oil and dust. You looked tired and older again and when you smiled it did not quite reach your eyes. We stood there listening to laughter drift from the rides and for a long time neither of us spoke.

You said you were leaving at the end of summer. Not far but far enough. The words landed softly and still felt heavy. I asked when you decided and you said you had always known. The admission hurt more than the leaving.

The sky darkened and the first stars came out faint behind the fair lights. I wanted to tell you everything I had not said all season. I wanted to ask you to stay or to go faster so the waiting would end. Instead I said I hoped it worked out and you nodded like that was the right thing.

When the music swelled we hugged goodbye careful and brief. Your hand squeezed mine once and let go. I watched you walk away through the dust and lights until the crowd swallowed you.

The night before you left a storm finally broke open and rain hammered the town hard and sudden. I sat on my porch listening to it and thinking of the sound of the screen door. Headlights appeared at the end of the street and I knew them.

You ran up the steps soaked and breathless and stood there dripping onto the boards. For a moment we just looked at each other and the rain filled the space between us. You said you could not leave without seeing me and the words shook.

We talked then quietly urgently. About fear and timing and the weight of small towns. About loving something and not knowing how to hold it without breaking it. Our voices were low and the rain hid them from the world.

I realized slowly that even now the cost was too high. That staying would mean resenting each other and leaving would mean carrying this ache anyway. The truth settled heavy and clear. When you leaned in I stopped you with my hand on your chest feeling your heart race.

We cried without drama without words. The storm softened. The porch light flickered. When you stepped back I felt the space open again and this time I accepted it.

Morning came pale and cool. I stood at the window watching your car at the curb. You loaded the last bag and looked up once. I lifted my hand and you did the same. The engine started. The car pulled away.

The screen door did not move. The house stayed quiet. I stood there until the sound faded completely and then I opened the door and let the morning air in feeling the echo of your hand in mine and knowing I would always hear that closing but also that I could finally breathe.