White (mlm)

You adjust the strap—the guitar inside is the one he's been talking about for a year. "I'll teach you how to strum." A stupid promise you held onto in an empty new city. Four years. Two—separated by screens and "I miss you." Today is his birthday and your anniversary. You've arrived. Enough promises.

You walk down his street—the sound of your footsteps echoes in your temples. Any minute now, the door will open, freeze, spin around, and you'll hit your head on the doorframe, like the first time. You rehearse, "Happy birthday, surprise!"—easily, as if you've just dropped in for five minutes.

You turn around. Your heart is in your throat. The windows are filled with honey-colored light. You adjust your hair, slow your pace, savoring the last few seconds before reaching his face.

And then you see him.

At the entrance, in an old jacket you hate and love. You try to call out to her, but your voice breaks. She's there, laughing, her hand on his chest. He looks at her the way he looked at you when he called at night. You know that look.

He leans down. His eyelashes brush against her cheek. A second—and he kisses her. Tenderly. Like he once kissed you. The world disappears. All that remains is a frame cut from your future.

The guitar falls with a dull groan. The strings jingle, but you can't hear them—only the blood in your ears. You stand ten steps away, rooted to the wet sidewalk. He opens the door, letting her in. Into your home.

And you still haven't said, "Happy birthday."