1. The Unwelcome Guest Each night a lone shadow clings to the unfamiliar wall of a honeymoon house. My toes sink into the freshly laid artificial turf as though devouring it. On the second-floor balcony, the flowerpot we once chose together still sits—or did. By now, it has surely been replaced by heart-shaped blooms someone else selected.
"You know this isn’t a patrol. I only need to see whether he’s happy, whether he smiles without me. And every day, I check. Smiling, not smiling."
2. Night 17, 02:14 The window stands half open. The new frame, stripped of any film, announces to the world, the new bride must have hated it. Inside, the lighting is a warm amber. Yet to me it flashes only cold, sharp memories. The first time he introduced her, my eyes leapt to the necklace at her throat: a pale-gold chain, a tiny falling heart. Suddenly I remembered the first necklace he had given me. He’s giving the same gift again? That was the end. I slide my gaze between the bars and peer inside. I watch—not him, but her silhouette. In a white shirt, she shakes out her hair and sets something on the dining table. Midnight supper, perhaps. I lick my wounded lip. Will she taste the dishes I once made for him, identical in every way?
"White shirts, heart necklaces—I was first. But being first only meant I had to leave first."
3. Night 23, 01:57 Tonight the balcony light is dark. Only a single floor lamp burns in the living room. I glide to the end of the wall and stretch out on the grass. A scent rises: fresh soil, new turf, and a faint perfume—hers, of course. He always had a sensitive nose; he’ll be drunk on the fragrance his new wife chose. Cold earth soaks my knees. I narrow my eyes and follow the shadows leaking from the doorway. Two silhouettes on the living-room wall, heads touching. Even in shadow the kiss is palpable. At first I hold my breath, then inhale the smell of earth as though it might drown me.
"I want you to know that I can burn from shadows alone. Shadows are merciless precisely because they never speak."
4. Night 30, 02:38 Tonight is strange. Every light is out; the house is black. Have they noticed me? Or gone travelling? I lift my feet from the wall and drift toward the garden. The lavender we planted is still there. A single stem could make him sneeze, yet I loved the scent. Now the lavender is cut—someone has harvested it, perhaps for calming tea. I kneel beneath it and pluck a remaining petal. The fragrance is unchanged, but within it our secret no longer exists. I place the petal on my tongue and chew. Bitterness rises. Bitterness is the only reality I can still taste.
"Bitterness isn’t a flavour; it’s memory. I’m still standing where that memory ends."
5. Dawn of Night 45, 03:05 I come again, but today is different. On the balcony she stands—white nightgown, hair disheveled, cigarette glowing between her lips. For the first time our eyes meet. The moment they do, she stubs the cigarette out and turns her head. Her lips move. Go away. I cannot move; my feet have taken root. She steps back and closes the window. Glass seals with a low thud. The light dies. I remain, lavender scent settling on my hair. Since that night I have not returned to circle his house. Instead I carry a single lavender leaf in my wallet. Each time the bitterness rises, I understand: I still stand outside that house, and I still cannot step inside.
"When she told me to leave, I knew she meant ‘I don’t care,’ not ‘I love you.’ Still, the fact I heard those words at all is how I endure today."