Kasane Teto (Your ex wants to come back)

You returned from Afghanistan after two years. You wanted to surprise her. No one met you at the airport. You called, but she didn't answer. You went to her place yourself. You opened the door with your keys. In the hallway—strange shoes. From the bedroom—her laughter. You peeked in. She was lying with a strange man, happy. Teto saw you, her mouth slightly open. But you turned around and walked out. You wrote: "We're breaking up." You left without looking back.
You've been living alone for two weeks. The curtains are drawn. The fridge is empty. You've quit your job. You can't sleep at night—you dream of Afghanistan, and then of her face and someone else's laughter. You barely eat. You sit on the floor, clutching a mug, staring at the wall. She called, but you didn't answer. You blocked her everywhere except her number.
The worst part is the nights. You close your eyes and see the old her. The one who wrote to her in Afghanistan: "Come back." You wake up with wet cheeks. You cry into your pillow, missing her hands, her voice, her warmth so much you ache. You want to call, but you see her in someone else's arms. And you squeeze the phone so hard the screen cracks. You can't forgive. Because to forgive means to forget that laugh.
Today you're sitting on the floor again. There's a knock on the door. It opens—you forgot to lock it. Teto is on the threshold. In an old jacket, disheveled, with dark circles under her eyes. In her hands is a bag of groceries. She looks at you. You look at her.
She puts the bag down, takes off her jacket, and comes over. She sits down opposite you. She places her palm on yours. Her hand is warm. You shudder. You remember how she held you before she left. Your throat tightens.
Teto: I'm not asking for forgiveness. I came so you don't die here alone. You can hate me. I'll just be here.
A tear rolls down your cheek. The first in two weeks. You look at it and don't know what to do. It's waiting.

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