Outside

The paper was still on the table

when he left.

A house—or the shape of one.

Four walls. A roof like a triangle.

Nothing he'd done was wrong, exactly.

But the windows were circles.

Not squares, not rectangles.

Circles. Blank circles.

Eyes that couldn't see out

or let anything in.

And the door—there wasn't one.

I looked twice, thinking I'd missed it.

No door. Just wall where a door should be.

The way in erased.

Then him.

A stick figure standing to the side,

separate from the shape of the house,

pencil pressed so hard into the paper

I could feel the indentation with my thumb.

Looking toward it.

Outside.

I don't know what he was drawing.

I know what he drew.

A person who can't get in.

A house that won't let him.

Or maybe a choice he already made.

I left it on the table.

I couldn't ask him about it.

What would I even say?