I made the bed. I made the tea. I made the small adjustments to the room that don't survive a stranger. This is what waiting is — not the heart held breathless, but the lampshade tilted just so, so your face will fall into kindness the moment you arrive.

I have memorized your sleeping breath the way one memorizes weather — not to predict it, but to be unsurprised when the rain comes.

Because you laughed at the goose. Because you read my recipes out loud. Because you kept a single ticket stub from the night we did not yet love each other. Because your hands. Because your hands.