The Time Difference Between A Broken Window And Now
Room For You
grentperez & Lyn Lapid
My thumb hovers over your name on the bright screen. The digital clock in the corner flips to 10:30 PM. Outside my window, the streetlights flicker on, casting long, unmoving shadows across the pavement. I do the math in my head, subtracting the hours, picturing the morning sun catching the edge of your kitchen table on the other side of the world. We are living in entirely different hours, walking through peculiar towns where the coastlines curve in opposite directions. But when the line finally connects, the slight delay in your breath traveling across the ocean collapses the map instantly.
You ask about the neighborhood. I walk past the old lot on my way home these days. The house with the window you shattered years ago is completely gone, replaced by a flat stretch of concrete that the city hasn't bothered to build upon yet. The streets have smoothed over their rough edges, quietly erasing the physical landmarks of our running around. Yet, as I stand by the edge of that empty lot, the air still holds the exact shape of your hurried footsteps.
The muted television flashes images of a world spinning too fast, scenes of chaos unfolding in places we’ve never been. It feels heavy, the way everything seems to be fracturing just outside our doors. But here, inside this quiet room, I simply slide a stack of unopened mail to the edge of the desk, clearing a wide, empty space in the center. It is a physical motion for an unseen truth. No matter how crowded the days become or how violently the structures outside shift, I keep this vacant square neatly preserved.
Our conversation winds down, leaving a quiet hum in the space between our words. I don't tell you that the distance feels vast tonight. I just look at the empty chair resting against the wall and leave the ringer volume turned all the way up. The screen goes dark, but I place the phone carefully on the nightstand, making sure nothing covers the speaker. Tomorrow, or the day after, the screen will light up again with your name, and I will simply pick it up.
Keeping the porch light on
After the call drops, the silence of the apartment settles back in, but it no longer feels hollow. I walk to the kitchen and turn off the overhead lamp, leaving only the small, warm bulb above the stove burning. Outside, the late-night quiet has blanketed the street, and somewhere thousands of miles away, you are likely stepping out your front door into the bright morning air. I lean against the counter, watching the orange glow reflect off the dark windowpane, knowing that while my day is ending, yours is just beginning, and somehow, we are carrying the exact same hours in our pockets.
Letters left unsealed
Lucy Dacus — "Night Shift"
Sitting with the quiet weight of the late hours, letting the memories of a shared past gently settle into the dark.
Lizzy McAlpine — "ceilings"
Tracing the vivid outlines of a daydream against an empty room, where the thousands of miles between us momentarily disappear.
Bright Eyes — "First Day Of My Life"
Feeling the entire map collapse in an instant the moment your name lights up the screen and breaks through the quiet static.
Death Cab for Cutie — "Passenger Seat"
Finding a profound sense of peace in the stillness of the night, trusting the invisible lines that still navigate the distance between us.
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