The Morning Your Breath Left The Glass

I watched the fogged window clear where your breath had been and felt your warmth pull away from my shoulder as if the day itself had decided to take you back. The glass cooled under my fingers and the room settled into a silence that knew your name and would not speak it again.

The apartment faced the harbor where boats slept against their ropes and gulls rehearsed their cries before sunrise. Pale light slid across the floor and found the places we had learned to stand together. The kettle clicked itself off without ceremony. I did not turn because turning felt like agreement. Somewhere behind me a floorboard eased as if letting go.

By the time I moved it was already true that loving you had come with a cost I could no longer pretend was theoretical. The ache arrived before the story and took up residence where certainty used to live.

We had met at the edge of the city where the tide came closest to the streets and the smell of salt braided with diesel and bread from the early ovens. I was counting birds for a survey that no one read carefully and you were watching the water with a patience that felt learned. When you spoke it was to ask whether the harbor ever forgot what it held. I said no because it felt safer than wondering.

You did not cast a shadow the first time I noticed you. The sun was low and everything else obeyed it. You watched my face as if listening for a sound beneath my words. When I asked your name you said it once and the sound lifted and fell like surf. I learned it by the way the air changed when you were near and by the way my chest loosened when you smiled.

We walked the pier at dusk and counted lights turning on. You avoided the waterline and I pretended not to notice. When I reached for your hand it was cool and steady and held for a breath longer than coincidence. You released me gently and said not yet. I nodded and did not ask what time was being measured.

The nights that followed learned our footsteps. The apartment grew accustomed to your presence and the harbor quieted when you arrived. You stood near the windows and watched the boats as if they were thoughts that might wander if not attended. Sometimes the glass fogged where you leaned close and sometimes it did not. I learned to watch the difference.

You told me stories that felt like weather reports. Of currents and returns and the way certain things could be guided but not owned. I listened and felt a recognition I did not want to name. When I asked where you went when you left you said you stayed where the water remembers and the city forgets. I laughed and you waited for me to be done.

The first time you touched my face it was accidental or meant to feel that way. Your fingers were warmer than before and the warmth stayed. You drew back as if surprised by yourself and the room cooled at once. I wanted to say something that would keep you there and found only quiet.

Days passed and the harbor changed its mood. Fog rolled in more often and the horns sounded closer. My sleep thinned and filled with water. I woke with the taste of salt and the sense of having been held by something patient and strong. When I walked the streets my reflection lagged in shop windows as if deciding whether to follow.

You noticed and asked me to rest. I promised and meant it. At night you stood farther from the windows and closer to the center of the room. The glass fogged more often now and cleared more slowly. I learned to read that too.

The cost arrived like a tide you feel before you see. My hands felt lighter. The city sounds grew muffled. Friends spoke and I answered late. Food tasted faint as if the flavors were practicing distance. You watched with concern and something like regret. When I asked what was happening you said we were learning the shape of the boundary and that boundaries always ask to be respected.

One evening the fog thickened until the harbor vanished. The horns called and answered themselves. Inside the apartment the light felt held. You stood close enough that your shoulder warmed mine and did not pull away. The glass clouded fully where you breathed and for the first time did not clear.

You told me then that staying near me was teaching you weight. That the water had begun to hesitate when you left it. You said that love could anchor or unmoor and sometimes it did both at once. You did not ask me to choose. That made it harder.

I wanted to argue and instead I listened. The fog pressed against the windows like a patient animal. I felt the truth move into place slowly and painfully. When I asked what would happen if we ignored it you said the harbor would take more than it offered and the city would forget me first.

After that we practiced distance. You arrived later and left earlier. The apartment cooled quickly after you went. I learned the ache of missing you before the door closed. Each night felt like rehearsal and each morning felt borrowed.

The final morning came clear and sharp. The fog lifted and the harbor showed itself honest and bright. Boats creaked and the gulls shouted. Inside the apartment the light found every corner and did not linger. You stood by the window where your breath had once made its mark and I knew what you had come to say.

We spoke without urgency. You told me that loving me had taught you what it meant to be held and that being held demanded a return you could not keep paying. You said leaving now would hurt less than staying until the water forgot how to carry you and the city forgot how to keep me. I believed you because my hands already felt less certain.

When I answered my voice steadied itself around the truth. I told you that I would not ask you to stay if staying meant losing the tide you belonged to. The silence that followed was deep and kind. You stepped closer and this time when you kissed me the warmth held and spread and then eased as if completing a circuit.

You turned toward the door and paused. The apartment seemed to listen. The glass stayed clear. When you left the air moved to fill the space you had been and did not pretend otherwise.

I walked to the harbor after and stood where the water meets the street. The tide moved in and out with the patience of things that know how to return. I placed my hand on the glass of a shelter window and breathed. It fogged and cleared and fogged again.

Now when mornings come I watch the light touch the water and move on. Sometimes a warmth passes through the air and my breath leaves a mark that lingers longer than it should. I let it fade and keep walking carrying what was given and what could not stay.