Keys Left
in the Door
Lucky For You
Novo Amor & Gia Margaret
I woke with the stiff leather of my boots still pressing into my ankles. The laces had left faint, red indentations through my socks. I do not remember lying down, only the heavy, dragging sensation of my limbs giving out sometime before midnight. There is a distinct kind of fatigue that does not come from physical labor, but from the sheer weight of occupying space in a room alone. The act of untying a knot requires a belief in the necessity of tomorrow, a preparation for rest. Leaving my shoes on was not an oversight; it was an abdication of the day.
In the bathroom, I keep my eyes fixed on the cracked porcelain of the sink basin while brushing my teeth. It takes physical effort to tilt my head downward, to deliberately avoid the medicine cabinet mirror. I already know the face hovering there—slack, pale, deeply uninteresting. Without the anchor of your gaze to give my features context, my reflection feels entirely redundant. I spit the toothpaste out, watching it spiral down the drain, realizing that the person I am right now is merely a placeholder, someone who simply occupies a shape until an external force demands a reaction.
Yet, the arrival of daylight forces a shift in the density of the apartment. The sharp angle of the morning sun hitting the floor brings the sudden, startling possibility of seeing you. The hours stretch out like a long, paved road, and the only reason I force myself to stand up, to finally strip off the stiff shoes and change my clothes, is the vague perimeter of your schedule. My entire existence reorganizes itself around the brief, narrow window of time when our paths might intersect outside the bakery or at the transit station. I am no longer an independent entity; I am simply a trajectory aimed at your presence.
I leave the apartment without eating, pulling the door shut behind me. The stairwell smells faintly of wet dog and old cooking oil. I walk down the street, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my coat, matching my pace to the rhythm of the commuters around me. I do not know where I am walking, or why I take this specific route instead of the shorter one. I just move forward, a hollow figure navigating the pavement, waiting for the precise moment when the sight of your coat in the crowd might finally pull me back into my own body.
A Quiet Departure Before the Sun
I stand at the corner where the street lamps begin to flicker off one by one, signaling the end of the night shift. The heavy boots are gone, replaced by worn sneakers that make hardly a sound against the concrete. I watch the metal shutters of the corner shop roll up, the scraping noise echoing off the brick facades. I am still hollowed out, still moving out of mere momentum rather than desire, but the sharp sting of the morning air against my bare neck feels undeniable. I turn the corner, not knowing if you will be there today, simply letting my feet carry me toward the station while the city wakes up around me.
The Sidewalks We Take to Find Each Other
Haux
Caves
The echoes of what we were still vibrate in the hollow spaces I now call home.
Keaton Henson
10am, Gare du Nord
I scan every passing coat at the terminal, terrified of seeing you and even more terrified that I won’t.
Rosie Carney
Awake Me
I am a ghost in my own skin, waiting for a memory or a touch sharp enough to pull me back into the light.
Leif Vollebekk
Elegy
The city hums a eulogy for the version of me that existed only when you were here.
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