The Bed

The small, sunlit bedroom once filled with love, we shared passion, silence, refuge from the world. That bed held memories both tender and raw. Our relationship burned in the late summer’s heat.

By autumn, I returned the keys, hoping he’d ask me to stay. He took them and handed back a box with fragments of my life. He admitted she had crossed into the sacred space upstairs. As the conversation ended, leaves wrestled, I searched for reassurance that what we shared still meant something. His quiet laughter made it clear: what was ours alone no longer holds space for me.