it left before i could name it.

on absence.

i’ve looked in every drawer. even the ones i never use — the junk drawer with its tangled cords and half-burned tea lights, the cabinet above the fridge that holds nothing but dust and one old envelope of photographs that don’t belong to me. i pull open the silverware tray and sift through forks like they might be hiding something. i push my hand under the couch, down between the cushions where popcorn kernels and lint live, where something always goes to die.

i’m not sure what i’m looking for anymore. it started with the keys. they weren’t in their bowl, weren’t in my coat pocket, weren’t anywhere obvious. but the search grew past them. it became bigger. it became about the weight in my chest when i opened the closet and felt like a stranger in my own house.

some things go missing loudly. glass breaking, sirens, doors left open. but this—this has been quieter. like something slipped out while i was washing my face or folding a towel. like it waited for me to blink.

i check the fridge, absurdly. i’ve found strange things there before: a roll of tape, the remote control, my own phone with the screen fogged from cold. but the fridge holds only the expected today. the soft rot of fruit i swore i’d eat. a jar of mustard. something too quiet to feed anyone.

i check the bed next, even though it hasn’t been slept in right in weeks. the sheets are pulled too tightly, like a hotel. i lift the corner of the fitted sheet like it might be hiding something underneath—a memory maybe, curled up and waiting like a lost cat. but there’s nothing. just mattress. just the small dip where a body used to be.

the closet smells like detergent and not much else. i run my fingers along the sleeves of shirts i haven’t worn since the world tilted. i press my palm to the wool coat hanging near the door and feel how stiff the fabric has become. it’s too warm now, too late in the year, but i hold it anyway. it smells faintly of something i can’t place—a hallway maybe, or a breath.

i find a receipt in the pocket. no date. just ink worn almost clean. the total is still visible though, the numbers stubborn and unnecessary. i hold it in my palm for too long. something is missing. something that’s been gone long enough to stop leaving clues.

i go into the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. i’m not sure what i think i’ll find.

maybe an answer folded inside a cotton swab box. maybe a name written in steam across the mirror. the toothbrush leans at the same angle it always does. the mouthwash is still capped. everything is in place. too in place.

i sit on the floor of the hallway, legs pulled in close, head leaning against the wall. i stare at the ceiling. i count tiny marks in the paint that weren’t there before. i wonder if i made them. i wonder how many things i’ve ruined without noticing.

a neighbor walks past outside. i hear their keys jingle. that sound—it lands too heavy in my ears. i want to weep from the sound of it. not because of what it is, but because of what it’s not.

i try to remember when i last felt whole. not happy. not good. just intact. just a version of myself that didn’t feel like an echo. but memory is a strange, slippery thing. it turns on you. sometimes when you reach for it, it gives you a flash—someone’s hands. a mug of coffee. sunlight through a window that isn’t yours anymore.

and then nothing.

like the floor dropping out from under you.

i go outside and check the mailbox. i don’t know why. there’s never anything in it that matters.

a bill. a coupon. nothing addressed to me in the way i want to be addressed.

i sit on the stairs and look at my shoes. one of the laces is frayed at the tip. i think about replacing it, but don’t. i think about everything i haven’t replaced. how sometimes it’s easier to wear something broken than to admit you need something new.

the sky is the color of old paper. clouds hang there like something undone. someone walks their dog across the street, and the dog pauses to look at me. just a second. like it sees something i don’t. then it moves on.

when i go back inside, the air feels different. the room smells like my shampoo and something colder, something metallic. like a drawer that’s been left open too long.

i sit at the kitchen table and run my finger around the rim of an empty glass. i think maybe i dreamed whatever it is i’m missing. maybe it was never here. maybe it left before i learned how to name it. maybe it’s still here, hiding in the shape of things, in the bend of my wrist, in the way i reach for my phone and then set it back down.

i don’t know what’s missing. but the space it left behind is shaped exactly like me.

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As always, stay safe, stay warm, and stay kind.

Best regards,

Zoe.