The Morning I Woke Before Your Shadow Left

I woke with your name on my lips at the exact moment the light shifted and I knew without opening my eyes that you were already gone. The room was still warm where you had been sitting on the edge of the bed and the air held that quiet pressure that comes after something irreversible has finished happening without asking permission.

The window was open and the curtains moved in a slow uncertain breath. Outside the city was just beginning to wake. A delivery truck hissed to a stop. Someone laughed too loudly and then fell silent. I lay there staring at the ceiling feeling the absence settle into the space beside me like a weight that had learned how to mimic comfort.

I did not know yet what it would cost me to remember you or what it would take to stop. Only that whatever we had reached for had already slipped past us and that loving you would mean living with a wound that refused to close.

I met you months earlier on a morning that felt unfinished. The sky was pale and undecided and the streets smelled of damp stone and bread from the bakery on the corner. You were standing very still near the bus stop as if waiting for something that had forgotten to arrive. Your coat was too thin for the season and your eyes carried a focus that made the rest of the world seem slightly unreal.

You asked me the time even though the digital sign behind me displayed it clearly. When I answered you nodded as if confirming a suspicion. You thanked me with a smile that arrived late as though it had traveled a long distance to reach your face. Something in my chest tightened in response before I could decide why.

We rode the same bus without speaking. The engine rattled. The windows fogged. At my stop I hesitated. You looked up at me then and for a moment I thought you might ask me to stay. Instead you said be careful today. The words felt weighted. I stepped off the bus with the sense that I had just walked out of the wrong room.

After that we began to see each other everywhere in ways that felt deliberate but never planned. The market just before closing. The library reading room with its long tables and quiet lamps. Each time there was the same pause before recognition and the same careful distance once we spoke. You never sat too close. I never asked where you went when you left.

Our conversations circled ordinary details. Books we pretended not to care about. Weather that never behaved as expected. Beneath it all ran a current of something restrained and aching. Sometimes when you laughed it sounded like relief. Other times like apology.

The first sign that you were not entirely anchored came one evening in the library. The lights flickered and went out for a second too long. When they returned you were standing on the other side of the room though I had just seen you across from me. You noticed my expression and said quietly that you startled easily. The explanation did not fit but I let it rest.

Later you told me pieces of the truth in fragments that felt older than language. That some people moved through time the way others moved through rooms. That memories were not always behind you. That staying still was harder than leaving. You never said the word ghost or curse or gift. You just said this is how it has always been.

The knowledge changed the way I looked at you. Every moment felt provisional. Every smile carried a shadow of departure. I wanted to ask how long you could stay in one place. I did not ask. Wanting you made me careful.

The night you came to my apartment the rain was heavy and relentless. You stood in the doorway dripping onto the floor apologizing for the mess you brought with you. I handed you a towel and you laughed softly as if the sound surprised you. The room filled with the smell of rain and damp fabric.

We sat across from each other on opposite ends of the couch. The light was low. Outside the rain blurred the city into something almost tender. You said you should not be there. I said I was glad you were. The silence stretched until it felt like something we were both leaning against.

When you finally moved closer it was slow and deliberate. Your hand hovered near mine without touching. I could feel the heat of it. You asked if I understood what I was choosing. I said I did not care. The lie tasted bitter even as I spoke it.

When we kissed it was brief and restrained as if both of us were listening for a warning. Your lips were warm and unsteady. There was a flicker at the edges of my vision and for a moment the room felt doubled as if overlapping itself. You pulled back breathing hard and said we had to stop. I let you go.

After that night you stayed away longer. When you returned there was a distance in you that had not been there before. You smiled less. You watched me more. As if memorizing. I felt the same urge rising in myself and resisted it with equal care.

The morning I woke before your shadow left came after you finally stayed the night. We had talked until the sky lightened and the sounds of morning crept in. You lay beside me not sleeping. When I asked what you were thinking you said that dawn was the hardest time to remain.

I must have drifted off. When I woke the bed was empty but warm. Your coat was gone. On the table you had left nothing. No note. No sign. Only the echo of your presence lingering like heat in fabric.

I went looking for you without knowing where to start. I walked the routes we shared. The bus stop. The market. The library. Each place felt thinner than before as if the world there had been stretched. At the bridge over the canal I stopped. The water moved slowly reflecting the sky in broken pieces.

You were there standing at the edge looking down. You did not turn when I approached. You said you were sorry. That you had stayed too long. That the morning had pulled you in two directions and you had almost failed to choose.

I asked what would happen if you stayed. You said you would unravel. Not all at once. Just enough to never quite be whole again. I asked what would happen if you left. You said you already knew that answer.

We stood there while the city moved around us. Cyclists passed. Someone called out. The world did not pause for our decision. You said you wished you had met me at a different point in your life. I said I wished time worked that way.

The air shifted then with that familiar pressure. Your outline softened. I felt panic rise sharp and immediate. I reached for you. This time my hand met resistance and warmth. Your fingers closed around mine tight and desperate. You said please remember me kindly.

The moment stretched painfully. I saw your face settle into something like peace. Then your hand slipped from mine and you were gone. The space you left behind hummed and then stilled.

I returned home alone. The days that followed felt muted. I learned the shape of the absence. I learned where it caught in my breath. Sometimes at dawn I felt the echo of you near and would lie still afraid to move.

Years passed unevenly. I loved other people in gentler ways. None of them asked me to choose the way you had. None of them left that particular ache.

On a pale morning much later I woke with the sense of being watched. The light shifted. The room held its breath. I did not open my eyes right away. When I did you were standing by the window solid and present and smiling that restrained careful smile.

You said you had found a way to stay longer now. Not forever. But longer. I felt tears rise and did not hide them. You crossed the room and this time when you sat beside me your weight stayed.

We did not rush. We did not promise. We held the moment gently knowing what it cost. Outside the city woke and the morning unfolded ordinary and miraculous. Your shadow remained.