Things I Never Said to the Window
The glass remembers every word you whispered to it in the dark, long after your voice had faded into the hum of the refrigerator.
You stand at the counter where the city lights smear against the rain-streaked pane, and every unspoken confession about love, loss, or the quiet ache of being alone finds its home in the condensation that runs like a river down your own face. As you trace invisible letters on the cold surface with a trembling finger, the boundary between the room's stillness and the storm outside begins to blur until the window feels less like a barrier and more like a second skin waiting to breathe.
